Solace
by Kore319
Summary: Eight years after the War, Hermione and Draco return to Hogwarts to save the school from a Dark curse. He's lead Auror, and she's...well, she's Hermione flipping Granger. Slow burn, Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

**Alright, allow me to fill in some details: **Harry and Ron became Aurors without completing their seventh year at Hogwarts. Hermione returned for her seventh year after the war, along with Draco, and Theodore Nott. Ginny also finished her schooling and now plays for the Holyhead Harpies. Theo (b.1979) married Penelope Clearwater (b. 1976) and Harry is engaged to Ginny. I think I've made this fairly obvious, but just a heads up: Narcissa and Lucius are dead. Narcissa was murdered by Rudolphus Lestrange shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts for her betrayal, and Lucius died six months after with a broken heart. Lestrange rots in Azkaban for his crimes and Draco was pardoned after Harry's testimony at his trial. Slughorn continues to teach Potions, Penelope teaches Charms, Neville teaches Herbology and Harry is preparing to teach DADA on the side while McGonagall looks for a full-time professor. Hermione went back and found her parents, and after a few years of research, was able to restore their lost memories. She bought her own place and lives next door to her best friends (13 Grimmauld Place). There's a countdown - in days - to Hogwarts' opening day.

**Rated M for language. also sex, violence, torture and major character death in the later chapters. (so yea, the whole shebang)**

**Like? Love? Hate? Don't care? Let me know! ****That Rowling woman owns everything.**

**Very nervous about this and currently sweating my way into dehydration,**

**Kore.**

**Chapter 1: Eight Years Later**

**The Ministry of Magic Atrium, Twenty Days Remaining.**

Draco felt his breathing grow shallow as the ceremony ended. His fingers laced tightly around the scroll that Kingsley Shacklebottom had just handed him. If he was the sentimental type, he would have wept - not by shedding a stray tear here and there but by howling with an intensity that would have cracked his lungs. Instead, Draco's throat just burned with emotion and it hurt to swallow. Redemption tasted bitter on his tongue. More than anything in his life, more than the scroll in his hand that confirmed that he was a competent and employed Auror working for the Ministry, more than the approval he had sought after for eight years, Draco wanted - nay, _needed_ \- his parents to see him now. His mother would have been proud, she would have embraced him and kissed his cheek lightly. His father would have sneered, but he wouldn't have insulted him, and that alone would have been enough to show his pride. He felt them now, despite their deaths and their abusive judgment in the past, he felt their presence and their lingering ache for him to succeed.

As soon as the crowd began to dissipate, Draco struggled against the friends and family of his co-graduates, brushing shoulders with strangers, until he was a few feet away from the nearest fireplace. Behind him, the statue of the Golden Trio stood at a staggering height in the Atrium and served as the background for all the celebratory pictures. With a wave of his wand, Kinglsey had sent the stage, microphone, and speakers packing, replacing the formal decorations with colorful silver confetti and banners. The Minister of Magic still lacked Dumbledore's _ompf_, but not the Headmaster's love for Potter and his gang. Despite all his reforms, Draco found the Minister's efforts half-hearted. Yes, he had passed many laws in favor of purebloods, while still respecting the growing muggle-born population. Yes, his new regulation that allowed half-guilty Death Eaters, much like Draco, himself, to apply to the Auror program had helped to cease a lot of the tension. But still, as soon as the names Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott had been read out loud today and they had been heralded as the brand-new graduates from the Auror training program, the Minister of Magic had hesitated as if deciding at the last minute to withhold their certificates. The small crowd had clapped with suspicion and rather unenthusiastically. Only Penelope, sweet Penelope, had cheered with a loud hoot, after rising to her feet with an alarming urgency.

Somewhere between meeting Penelope Clearwater as a friend of Theo's, to the last time he had seen her before today (when she had gifted him a plain manilla envelope with the sonogram of the developing baby Nott), Draco had accepted her as the often bothersome yet maternal sister who he could not escape. Sister, only because Theo was his brother, not by blood but because of their mutual absence of real family. They shared similar passions in Quidditch, and politics and the two Slytherin alums had navigated through the post-war days relying on each other's support. When they had returned to Hogwarts to complete their seventh year, even the bloody wind seemed estranged against them. The bullies were bullied, and relentlessly too, for the loss of good people, truly innocent people, rang loud around the castle walls.

If there had been any doubt in Draco's mind that he was against all the blood purity bullshit, and Salazar's undying agenda to rid the wizarding world of all muggle-borns, it had been erased the day Granger had saved him and Nott from a group of fifth-year Gryffindors who had attacked them near the Great Lake with only the worst of hexes. The Head Girl had marched in, with her nose still rising towards the sky, but with a stern look on her face that she only served to her housemates.

She had yanked a lanky boy by his ear, as he was attempting to hide in nearby shrubbery.

"Bennet, you and your friends will come with me to the Headmistresses office, at once. Do not" - Granger had pointed her dainty finger at the group, who had all dropped their eyes to stare at the dead winter grass - "repeat this mistake, or I will personally have you expelled!"

When she had addressed the Slytherin boys, her features had softened with pity, of all things. Draco had detested that look _so_ much.

"Nott, Malfoy, can I have a word?"

The clouds hung low that day and it was a known fact that tomorrow morning would be shrouded in fog. It was the kind of weather that would have otherwise inspired lovebirds to nuzzle into each other's arms by the fireplaces, whispering wishful promises of infatuation, only for them to break in heartache by the next rainy day. Instead, the avenging team of Gryffindors was out in the cold, picking on half-innocent parties to quench their hurt.

The three of them had barely shuffled a few feet away from the attackers before Granger had muttered a _Muffliato._

"You didn't stop them. All you did was cast Shield Charms," she had said, managing to make even that sound like an accusation.

When he had met her questioning gaze, the pity had intensified ten-fold. It gnawed at Draco's stomach, forcing him to answer back with a bite.

"Tell me, Granger, if I had even disarmed one of these fools, would you take me to see McGonagall?" Hermione had shifted her weight from her left hip to the right and moved her eyes to stare at the spot just above the boys' heads. Draco had stepped towards her then, accusing her in return. "No. You would throw me in Azkaban without so much as a doubt in your empty little head."

"There was no point," Theo had echoed the sentiments. Granger had saved them that one time at Hogwarts but not many people came to their support thereafter. Their trails at the Wizengamot, their training at the Auror headquarters, even their banking with the goblins of Gringotts - all their endeavors in the adult wizarding world had been infused with subtle remarks about their past association with the Dark Lord. It never let the two men forget that no one, save for maybe their close friends (most of whom were in the same boat as them), trusted them.

As Draco reached for the Floo powder above the fireplace, a firm grasp around his right arm drew his attention back to the emptying hall.

"Not so fast, Draco! You're not running away today of all days. The three of us have to have a picture taken, and then, if you could, take a picture of us, alright?" Penelope gestured to her husband and herself, before finishing, "The mums will hound us for it as soon as we owl them!"

Theo shot Draco a bemused look before wrapping a protective arm around his wife's waist and pulling the woman to his side. He pecked her cheek, which was blushed as she was out of breath, and whispered something about slowing down, especially with the new pregnancy taking a toll on her. She swatted his arm away, dismissed his warnings and handed Draco the _Magic!ick_ camera.

When the three of them got their picture taken, Penelope _tsked_ at Draco and demanded that he smile.

"Oh, come on! The least you could do is be happy," she scolded him in a teasing tone with a twinkle in her eye that kept him from making a snide remark. He scowled back but managed to replace the tight line of his lips into an upward curve.

"Leave him be, Penny, the bloke's dead inside," Nott chuckled, shaking his head and catching the look of disinterest on his best mate's face. The resulting photograph, which Penelope would share with her children years after the incident, was comical at best - Draco glancing towards Penelope and then pressing his lips together to form his signature smirk as he faced the camera, Theo laughing effortlessly as he looked over his wife and onto his best friend and Penelope rolling her eyes at her two Slytherin boys who had her sandwiched in the middle, before supporting her round belly with her left hand. When he saw that polaroid for the first time, Theo could not get over the striking similarity between Lucius and his son. The dimensional limitations of photography accentuated Draco's features and Nott knew that if a passerby misconstrued the hardness of his mate's face and attributed it to the smugness that plagued the senior Malfoy, he could not blame them. Draco was undeniably smug, but Theo understood him well enough to chalk it up to a defense mechanism at best. The hardness, Theo credited to postwar guilt and the loss of both the Malfoy patriarch and Narcissa.

**Draco Malfoy's Apartment. Nineteen Days Remaining.**

The owl was waiting outside his window, pecking away. Amusing little thing with brown feathers, a bit of white here and there. A Hogwarts tag hung from his left wing, which made him reluctant to receive the letter altogether.

It was addressed to him, _obviously_. From McGonagall, _obviously_. But what was far from obvious was the actual purpose of the letter, the contents between "To" and "From" were just blurred words pooled together. She had mentioned within it that she had a vacant post at the school. A post that sodding Potter had been prepping for all summer but because of "urgent distractions" he would not be able to fill his hours. Maybe tomorrow he could sneak into the Ministries records to see which case was challenging the famous Auror Potter so much. How typical of the Chosen One, Draco thought - he was to be excused from yet another inexcusable expectation.

So, she was asking an ex-Death Eater to replace the Golden Boy? Ha! This woman had surely had too much brandy for one night or finally, parts of her brain were dissolving. Draco's reply was as gentle as he could manage: _No. _At least he had added the full stop at the end, it would douse all hoping fires in the old bat's heart. He would not entertain her by taking on the post and he certainly would not leave the doors open for discussion.

He should have left the door open for discussion, though. He realized this two days after sending in his refusal because that very day he began work at the Auror Headquarters. From new recruits to senior Aurors to hot secretaries - everyone, for Merlin's sake - eyed him and Nott with a glaring suspicion. He managed to ignore it for the first two days, but the third day was unbearable. The news of Nott's departure came at noon, which put him in the foulest mood.

"No one willing takes on the Hogwarts watch, Theo," Draco commented. He was trying to be casual, but disappointment drenched his every syllable.

"Penelope is teaching Charms this year, mate - since Flitwick retired and the Patil girl left after a year. The Hogwarts watch only makes sense. If the Ministry's paying me to be with my wife while doing a few security checks here and there, I'm taking it." Theo picked at the lobe of his right ear, a thing he did often when he spoke the truth. While most deceivers subconsciously compensated for their thievery by fidgeting, blinking or resorting to some nervous tick, Nott could not mask his honesty. "Plus, she's due in January and I want to be there along the way, you know?"

"No, I don't know actually. Haven't knocked anyone up yet." Draco let another smile slip, one that didn't quite touch his silver eyes.

"Yet." was all Nott said, cocking his head to one side suggestively before he grabbed his files and headed for his desk. He left for Hogwarts later that evening.

That night, Draco mauled over the letter he had received from McGonagall. Why him? Why now, after so many years? Why not Weasley or Granger or even the Weaslette or any of the Order members that the Headmistress clearly preferred? The woman detested him the same way Snape had detested the Gryffindor try-hards. Even in the adult world where inconsequential school favorites and politics carried no weight, Minerva acted curt with him. Once he had seen her during the Auror training and once before that in Diagon Alley, on a random Sunday. Both times, he had been greeted with narrowed eyes and a very subtle nod that he thought he had imagined.

**13 Grimmauld Place. Sixteen Days Remaining.**

Hermione woke with a start at the sound of an owl pecking at her window. The wine glass slumped, about to tip over from her relaxed fingers and the deserted food had cooled to an inedible temperature. The TV ran along with hushed sounds. Sleep mocked her and she mocked back by staying up until the nights lightened into mornings. Just in the past week, the witch had spent three out of the six nights huddled under a soft, yellow lamp, reviewing and redrafting her propositions for better treatment of house-elves. While she had herself requested the position at The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she had come to resent her employment for her peers' sheer lack of motivation and common sense. The only two minds who engaged her, often stayed out of the office entirely - Mr. Diggory at home with his ailing health and Grimblehawk in the field, gathering research data.

Against the telly's constant hum, sleep finally graced her and she found herself feeling a twang of annoyance at the tapping - three raps sounded, then silence, then three repeated again.

She rose from her post on the couch and cracked open her window to the crisp August air. The owl was unrecognizable, although exceptionally cute with brown feathers and traces of white mixed in - a tag hung with the Hogwarts crest from its wing. Its beady eyes perked at the sight of the offering that she held in her right palm. She opened the letter with one hand as the owl ate from her other. Leaning against the windowsill, she skimmed over the words before the pecking of the bird's beak on her empty hand brought her back to reality.

Hermione contemplated going next door to check if Ginny was present but realized that the only reason she was sulking in the confines of her own home was because the red-head, newly engaged witch was helping Ron fix the plumbing at his apartment. Hermione said her goodbye to the owl, closed the crack and bounded to the fireplace before Flooing to her favorite place and to one of her favorite people.

**Hogwarts: Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom, A Few Moments Later.**

Hermione arrived through the fireplace and immediately hit her head on the low ceiling of the Floo entrance, following it with a rub to her left forehead with a very Ron-like "Bloody hell!"

"Hermione? Is that you?" Harry asked from somewhere within the dimmed room.

"Who else?" she breathed out in a light laugh as she ran up to him and greeted her best friend with a tight embrace.

"I knew you'd come, I just thought it would be tomorrow, or over the weekend sometime," the man said, adjusting his glasses that the witch had tipped during their hug.

"Oh hush, I'm here now. What'd you have to ask me that couldn't be owled?" Hermione walked past Harry and looked around the classroom. So many memories invaded her mind, she couldn't help but smile. All the teachers' names muddled together - there had been so many through the years - but one wolfish professor appeared in her mind instantly. She lamented the Lupins many a time but now when she remembered the Marauder, it dawned on her just how much Teddy was turning out like his father.

"Actually, I don't know how to say it yet. I was going to practice because I thought I had more time before you showed up."

The veracity in Harry's voice concerned Hermione because the three of them never conversed with such formality. Even in the six strenuous months that Ron and she had shared immediately after their breakup, there was never a sense of obligation.

"Out with it, Harry," she said, turning around to face the spectacled man and tapping her foot with impatience.

"Something's happened. Here, at Hogwarts. McGonagall asked me to come in to see if it was a real threat. Possibly, one that warranted postponing the school's opening next month." Harry's voice dropped and he began to fidget with the buttons on his robes, "I thought...well, I thought, I could use your advice."

"Have you told Ron?" Hermione's face fell as she considered her best friend's words. Hogwarts never postponed its opening. The school stayed open, even during times it should have been closed. These very walls had suffered through Umbridge, the Carrows and even during the rebuilding efforts after the war, only a few wings had been temporarily shut. Hogwarts, however, was always open to all its students.

"I haven't told anybody. I don't know if we should worry him yet," as Harry explained, the wizard moved towards the large wooden desk which was covered with loose parchment, three dried inkwells, a few dying candles and an owl stand sans an actual owl. A snitch rested on a golden, ornate pedestal, with the familiar _I open at the close_ inscription. There were books stacked too, reaching almost the height of Harry's messy hair but from their dust-collecting covers, Hermione presumed that not one book had been opened since last semester's end.

"The school's been changing. It started with the stairs - one night, they were fine but, by morning, every single one of them would only lead to the dungeons." The wizard continued staring at the mess on his desk as he spoke, his head hung low as his fingers picked at the loose parchment.

"Then a week later, McGonagall said the portraits began whispering, sort of like Walburga's back home. In the beginning, they were harmless nothings, really, but now I've been hearing some of the nastiest things out of them," Harry said.

Hermione tried to stop the immediate recoil that shivered through her body at the mention of the Black portrait. Of all the foul things in 12 Grimmauld Place, that painting was her least favorite. Despite the very many restoration efforts, the painting remained stuck on the wall and quite resentful of all muggle-affiliated things and people. Walburga still yelled wretched insults and while Hermione ignored it well enough, she had heard Ginny arguing with it on several occasions.

"Nott's noticed it too and he just arrived from the Ministry a few days ago! McGonagall was hoping it was just the lack of students haunting the school but this morning one of the headmasters' paintings spoke to her. It was Phineas Nigellus Black - he said the school was finally fighting against all the impurity, antagonizing all blood traitors and muggle-borns. He said Hogwarts would attack and purge all who did not fit Slytherin's blood status requirements." Finally, Harry's gaze lifted to meet hers, as if this was all his fault and he resented himself.

Hermione ignored his wallowing self-pity and calculated the evidence.

"I suppose this has something to do with the change in the student population last year?" she said. After the war and the start of the new millennium, when enrollment, admission, and graduation numbers had decreased to an abysmal count, the Hogwarts' Governors had initiated the most intensive recruitment program in the history of the school - the fruits of which were seen only last year when muggle-borns and half-bloods had accounted for more than sixty percent of the growing student body.

"I'd presume so," huffed Harry, shrugging his shoulders for punctuation. "Listen, Mione, I know this is hard for you. Reliving all the prejudice, especially after-" he stopped, walked to stand in front of his best friend, reached for her shoulders and held her gaze firmly. "You do not have to help, do you understand? In fact, I wasn't going to write to you at-"

She raised a doubtful eyebrow that silenced him mid-thought.

"Right," the wizard reasoned, shaking his head and smiling. There was no denying Hermione sodding Granger.

"Let's start with the Headmaster's portrait, shall we?" she said, already springing with anticipation towards the door. It took the duo more than twenty-five minutes to reach the Headmistress' office, even longer to get any fruitful information out of the conniving Slytherin's painting and a whole half hour to return to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. The stairs led them to the dungeons a total of twelve times. On her way out, Hermione minded her head as she entered the fireplace - already thriving with green Floo flames - but still, the ceiling caught her scalp and blurred her vision.

It wasn't until she was enveloped by the warmth of the bathwater and the musk smell of night jasmines in the sanctuary of her own home that a thought slipped into her bruised head and caused her to jerk up, eyes wide open, heart humming speedily in its cage - the castle had attacked her, only twice on the side of her left forehead, and just enough for it to be passed off as mere coincidence or clumsiness on her own part. But she knew she wasn't clumsy, and she scoffed at fools who believed in coincidences.

**12 Grimmauld Place, Fifteen Days Remaining.**

"No, no, no. Absolutely not, Harry. It's a no from me, and honestly, it's a no from Ginny too," Ron said, as soon as Harry had finished explaining to the siblings and ended with a proposition for their help. The wizard had withheld the information from his best friend and fiancé for he feared this exact response.

After the second wizarding war, the Weasley's had prospered considerably from the profits of George and Ron's business. But even Ron had known that his name did not belong anywhere near the shop; 'Ron and George' didn't have the same ring to it as 'Fred and George'. But in the postwar haze, the joke shop provided Ron with a sense of normalcy and so it had been his best option. Instead of calling him a coward - as many others had, George included - for leaving his Auror's post in exchange for something milder, Harry had supported his mate's decision without much protest. Harry knew this the best: normal and mild were prized luxuries, and yet, there was nothing braver than choosing to live an uneventful life - nothing took more courage than ignoring the call for heroics that seduced most wizards.

Ron's lack of interest in cleaning up the mess after the Battle of Hogwarts had been the first nail in the coffin for their tedious relationship for Hermione. Everyone had stayed to undo the physical mess, to bury the dead and to take shifts at St. Mungo's because of a lack of staff. But not many lingered around to iron out the smaller wrinkles in the wizarding world that threatened to become greater chasms. Hermione, Harry, Ginny, and a few other Order members pulled long hours, researched, and inspected every last detail. The Malfoy Manor, shops in Knockturn Alley and the Gaunt shack in Little Hangleton were all thoroughly stripped of their dark magic. Ron's absence through all these efforts had irked Hermione the most.

All their childhood they had spent chasing after answers, risked their lives for a better world, a less prejudiced world, and yet Ron was gullible enough, tired enough to believe that killing Voldemort would just end their troubles. Unlike her ex-boyfriend, Hermione _still_ found herself chasing after leads, finding leftover dark magic from Tom Riddle's time that she spent hours expunging. It had been eight years. Eight years after the war, she _still_ woke startled at night, clenching the scar on her stomach. She looked at him now and saw the way his blue eyes dulled at the mention of another adventure. Yet, his smile was genuine. An innocent smile, Hermione thought, just like Molly's. His maroon jumper had a peachy _R_ weaved in the middle and he tugged at the sleeves with his fingers, occasionally running those same fingers through his trademark Weasley hair.

Before he could reach for his hair again, though, Ginny sent her palm hurling towards the back of his head with a resounding_ thwack._

"Ronald do not speak for me!" she bellowed. The woman was not subdued by any means. She was the youngest in the room, and Hermione _was_ the brightest witch of her age, but Ginevra Weasley had the sharpest tongue. She began again, this time, her attention turned to Harry, "What did the Black portrait say again?"

Harry's jaw tensed as he looked over at his witch, toying with the quill in his hand. "Just that the school would work to hurt those who were not purebloods until it managed to push them out."

"How are we supposed to reason with a bloody castle? Even for you, these are steep expectations, Harry!" For someone who did not want to be involved in the mystery, Ron was contributing well enough.

"The Sorting Hat! It would know, it's old as the school. It would have to know, right? I'll owl Professor McGonagall. Gin, did you bring the ink? I've run out." The excitement that had been simmering at the edge a few minutes before was now overflowing through Harry's every word.

"If it is an older curse, then yes, The Sorting Hat will help. But if it is cast by someone recently then perhaps, we could find them and force its reversal? I have researched a few wizards apart from Voldemort who could have left this kind of Dark Magic, but haven't found actual leads just yet," Hermione wondered out loud as she slid off from her stool to pace the length of the room. It came as a relief to Ron, partly because her epiphanies were almost always right and partly because this was the first burst of energy from the witch this evening, who was otherwise always eager to share something or the other.

Hermione, on the other hand, felt defeated. How in the world had she not been able to work this out for the past 72 hours? She had practically memorized _Hogwarts: A History _to a point where she was sure she knew it better than Bagshot herself. Her mind was growing weak, she decided, refusing to even think about the more logical reason that she was simply overworked. Trying to pass thirteen new legislative drafts for the betterment of house-elves while spending most of the nights in the secluded rows of the Ministry library had made her numb and quite immune to her normal bursts of genius.

Harry, who had found the ink, snapped up his head so fast while his letter to the Headmistress that he was sure it would nag him while he tried to sleep later. In a rush, he scratched out what he had written previously, jotted down the new revelations and went to the upstairs bedroom to send his owl.

The bushy-haired witch ignored the Weasleys' banter that followed. She needed to be alone, to read and take notes, she needed to fix this before it threatened any more innocent muggle-borns. Grabbing her coat, she made her way out the House of Black and to her own home next door. _Brilliant, _Hermione thought, as she slumped to the floor at the foot of her bed and let her head hang in between her knees, _fucking brilliant!_

**Ministry of Magic: DMLE, Fifteen Days Remaining.**

The stares penetrated his bones and found his soul for breakfast. For the first few days, Draco and Theo had a good distraction technique - as soon as the eyes would begin to linger on their presence, both the men would talk amongst each other about something, anything. Without Nott to shield him from the intensity of these looks, Draco felt annoyed - as if he had passed Auror training but not become an Auror just yet. He discovered at lunchtime that Potter was relieved of all his senior duties at the DMLE and had taken up an undisclosed security position at their old school.

That evening he entered his apartment late after spending a few lonesome hours at The Leaky, walked thirteen steps to the fireplace and Flooed to his least favorite Scottish Castle.

**Hogwarts: The Headmistress' Office, Fifteen Days Remaining.**

Minerva did not expect to find a band of seven Hogwarts alumni posing uncomfortably in her office occupying whatever little space Albus' clutter did not already take up. All her belongings were neatly folded, organized and tucked safely in the depths of her trunk that lay in her dorm. The Headmistress' office was a museum dedicated to her famous and much-loved predecessor. She had given a few of the antiques to Harry for safekeeping but the larger pieces still gathered dust. When Clearwater's Patronus had awoken her for an urgent meeting with the Aurors, she had expected that Harry and Theodore would have accompanied the Charms professor, but to find Ms. Granger, the Malfoy heir she had corresponded with only a few days ago, and the Weasley siblings lingering about in her office almost made her wish she had just told Penelope to wait until the morning. The greying hair from her top knot bun let a few waves escape so that they framed her face with the utmost elegance. Her lips pulled firmly together as she entered her office and she addressed everyone by their surname and a firm nod before looking at them expectedly.

Harry had decided to sit. Ginny stood near the pensive, looking curiously at the portraits and she waved to the only one that was awake: Professor Mordicus Egg. Arthur talked about the wizard endlessly, oh how he was the most wonderful Muggle Studies professor and how he managed to revolutionize the muggle perception before You-Know-Who destroyed his legacy. On and on, her father would rant about this wizard, who in Ginny's opinion, should have been in Azkaban for his dressing sense.

Ron sat to Harry's right and Penelope to his left. Hermione stood leaning on the bookcases, directly opposite and farthest away from Malfoy. He, too, leaned on the bookshelves across the room and having found a work of interest, he had already picked it out and was skimming through it. Draco had no intention of being part of this monthly Potter Fan Club meeting, but he had walked out of Penelope's fireplace and quite literally into Theo's arse. All six of his old classmates had already been in a fiery discussion before his unannounced entrance but Theo had filled him in on the details. Draco had been an inch away from excusing himself from the chaos, when his best friend of all people, had suggested that they should all move to the Headmistresses' office for further discussion with McGonagall herself. Draco had decided that he would see her, say his bit about being interested in the teaching position and leave before any more nonsense about Hogwarts being cursed or spontaneously exploding bathrooms entered his head. But seeing now how Theo paced between Hermione and Draco, his forehead creasing with worry every so often, muttering things to himself as if he was taking mental notes on a lecture, Draco knew that his bit would have to wait until after the Fan Club meeting ended. Penelope had looked back at Nott three times and cajoled him to calm down. Even after Minerva's entrance, the pacing slowed but did not cease completely.

"Professor, I think you were right. The school should delay opening until we can make sure that it is absolutely safe for the students," Harry said.

"Why the sudden change of heart, Mr. Potter? Just last week, you and Ms. Granger insisted that I let the school year commence at its scheduled date, did you not? I even began to look for staff at your request, as you are aware." The professor's eyes danced between Harry, and Hermione when she spoke.

"Minerva, the reason we called this meeting is because Theo found one of the bathrooms destroyed. The second-floor girl's lavatory, to be specific," Penelope explained. She looked at her husband and this time, it was her forehead that wore creases of concern.

Draco's attention swam back to the meeting at the sound of Granger's deep sigh. She looked like she had just wrestled a troll single-handedly to the ground, on two hours of sleep. She had grown taller or maybe the hunch on her back had just straightened out to a better posture. Unlike the Notts', who expressed concerns more obviously, Granger's worry was etched minutely into the lines of her face. Draco could tell, from his own inspections in the mirror, that she didn't let those lines of worry slip even when she laughed or smiled. They simply stayed. His fingers around the book clasped it shut and at the sound of the pages ruffling, Hermione's eyes shot up to meet his. She saw him.

The shallow breathing that troubled him back at the graduation ceremony returned with ferocity. She _saw_ him. She saw how he didn't fit in with this group, or any group for that matter. She saw how he had a book in his hands to control his nervous fidgeting. She saw how he was trying to deflect as much attention as possible by letting the books swallow him in their shadows. Averting her gaze, he looked at Theo, instead. But he could still feel her eyes lingering on him, just as his had lingered on her moments before. Oh, for fuck's sake, she could even see him using Theo as an excuse to look away.

Narcissa saw through Draco like that. She knew it when he had agreed to the Dark Lord's demand for him to kill Dumbledore that he would not be able to do it in the end. She had seen him when he had taken the Dark Mark. She had seen under Draco's mask, even when the Dark Lord couldn't, despite his exceptional torture techniques through Legilimency.

Hermione, on the other hand, was sure that her eyes were playing tricks on her. That or her mind's train had finally arrived at Breaking Point Station. Despite doubting her own ethos, she continued to watch Malfoy with trepidation. Not a single thread of his robes was of another color than black, in stark contrast to the white silver of his eyes. Under the dark shadows, she could tell that his pupils had dilated. His sharp nose had been angled towards her just a second before but now he was watching Nott. The rest of his ferret features remained: same blond hair, same aristocratic air about him, a hint of his famous smirk playing at the edge of his mouth.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?" Her eyes snapped away from Malfoy's silhouette and rested on Ginny who gave her a quizzical look.

"You agree with Harry, right?" Ginny questioned her again. Wide-eyed, Hermione stared at the witch and tried to form coherent words. Her lips parted, then closed then opened again to make her case but nothing came out.

"Yes, Weasellete," Draco cut in, "Granger agrees with Potter and you agree with Granger and Potter agrees with you. All of Godric's godforsaken children agree, can't we move on, already?" His seething voice demanded.

"Move on? I'm sorry, did you just say, 'move on'?" Hermione countered, "The Second Floor Girls' Lavatory happens to be the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, Malfoy! Not something people can just 'move on' from now, is it?" Her voice started small but grew shrill as she gathered more fury. He had not changed after all. Hermione could mull over how his looks had refined and how his voice had lost that annoying high-pitched edge, but deep-down Draco Malfoy was the same. Turning back to her friends, she wondered out loud, "Who invited him, anyway?"

He ignored her completely. Moving towards the Headmistress, he added in a wary tone, "Professor, about the letter you sent me the other day-"

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, the one to which you replied, simply 'no' and the one which I suppose I have no use of discussing with you since the school's immediate opening seems postponed," Minerva interrupted. She peered at him with great skepticism from over her glasses that rested on the tip of her slightly crooked nose.

"If and when the school opens, _Minerva_, and if and when you have a teaching position open, owl me the details." Draco could tell he had unnerved every single person in the room by using the esteemed professor's given name for leverage, but all the mundanity and squabbling was driving him fucking insane. As he prepared to exist, Granger caught his arm and forced him to face her. Her thin fingers wrapped around his forearm and even through the embroidered silk, he could feel her warmth.

"The book, Malfoy. Give it to me."

He couldn't have cared less for the book still in his hands, but Draco took up the challenge regardless. His curiosity sparked when she didn't cower like most people under the weight of his glare. He kept the book protected behind his back, and he realized as he was doing it just how childish he looked but it irritated Granger and that made his day.

"What made you pick that book?" Her voice was no more than a dim whisper. If he had been flipping through the pages of the book, he would have missed her question, easily. His stomach burned as if he had just downed a liter of cheap vodka at the sound of how softly she spoke. The bile rose high in his throat before he croaked out a response, "I don't know."

Hermione wanted to ask him many more things but before she could get another syllable out, Draco Malfoy had already turned on his heel and left, shoving the book he had picked from Dumbledore's collection into her hands.

She glanced at the title, knowing exactly what it read, but still gasped as her fears were confirmed. Her fingers traced the silver paint that formed the words in the leather covering as Harry came to stand beside her and read the titular words to everyone else,

"_The Founders' Feud: A Never-Ending Curse on Hogwarts._"

* * *

**That's all for now. Cya in March!**


	2. Chapter 2

**AAAAAHHH! I don't know what to say. People actually read my work! And reviewed! And favorited it! And followed the story! You have no idea how much this means to me! Thank you, thank you, thank you. ****There's a lot of Slytherin bashing here and I'm sorry - without giving too much away, I do wanna say that it's primarily limited to the early chapters!**

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Chamber of Secrets**

**Hogwarts: Headmistress' Office, A Few Moments Later**

"A curse from Salazar himself?" Ron queried. His face soured as he looked about the castle walls with an ounce of fear, grasping his chair until the tips of his fingers paled. The portraits slept in their homes. "'Mione, maybe you shouldn't be here if the castle is against muggle-borns!"

The witch just rolled her eyes in response and continued reading through Malfoy's chosen book.

"I don't know, we can't be sure. But if this is truly a curse by one of the Founders then we should alert the Ministry, Harry," she suggested. Turning to Ron, Hermione said, "And you do realize that if it's unsafe for me to be here, that you shouldn't be here either." A laugh graced her lips when the redhead failed to understand. "In Salazar's eyes, you're a blood traitor, Ron," said the witch. Her attention returned to the book and she began to transcribe notes on a piece of parchment on a nearby ledge. Her hair waved out of the clip that clasped half of it back at the nape of her neck and she tucked it behind her ear with a scowl.

Ron's eyes bulged dangerously out of its sockets as horror marred his features. His gaze kept lingering on the fireplace throughout the rest of the meeting, thinking that maybe if he stared at it hard enough, he could manage to escape.

Ginny placed a hand on Harry's back which returned the wizard's attention to the present. His mind had been scouring through all his mental notes on Voldemort and Slytherin. _It couldn't be_. Slytherin stood by his ideals enough to leave the school, he would not taint the castle with a curse. But, as Hermione kept reading off more information from the book, it became rather obvious that Salazar's motives might have driven him to this cause. Before he could answer the witch's question, the Headmistress voiced his exact thoughts.

"Alert the Ministry, Ms. Granger? If the bureaucrats get their hands on this, the school won't open for the next five years. I'm surprised they sent Potter here on my request but if we let another word slip about a curse on Hogwarts, Dorian will want to work this himself. Potter, how long did Fungbury take to close the Waterpierce case?"

"It's… it's still in the works, ma'am," Harry responded, his voice low with embarrassment.

Harry, himself, had cast his vote in favor of Dorian Fungbury for the position of Head of the Auror Office. But just five years after his appointment, the man reeked of sour bread, fire whiskey, and sloth-paced paperwork that managed to snuff out most leads if any did emerge. As in most offices, seeing the leader's lack of fire, most of the other Aurors had settled into a rather repetitive routine. Ron's old office had never found another Auror to house, instead, it had become the filing room for the whole department, teeming with stacks of parchment, bound together by thick ribbons. It was one of the reasons why Harry had agreed to take on the part-time teaching position at Hogwarts. And the wizard wondered now if his office would face the same demise as his friend's.

Penelope turned in her chair and studied her husband again. He was still pacing across the room, calculating silently, his brows knitted together to form a deep _W_ on his forehead. "If I may make a suggestion, Minerva?" asked Penny.

The Headmistress nodded.

"What if you accept Draco for the teaching position? He's an Auror, you'll have extra help and the Ministry wouldn't know. With Ron, Harry, Theo, and Draco, that's four Aurors."

Ron looked like he was about to protest, and Theo's pacing stopped at once. Oh, had he married a wicked witch. Penelope had coaxed Theo to take on the Hogwarts watch, and she had recommended Draco for the DADA position. Who better than an ex-practitioner of the Dark Arts to teach the students how to defend against them, the witch had sung. His wife knew well before them, Theo was sure, that her two Slytherin boys would come to despise the deep-seated prejudices of the Auror department rather quickly. While he admired her, Penelope continued, "Plus, we have Hermione, and she's as good as two. And Ginny too, when she's not training with the Harpies!"

"Perhaps, if we work together, the school can open as scheduled, Professor," Ginny offered, smiling at Penelope, and glancing hopefully at the Headmistress.

Ron snapped at that. "Gin, you can't be serious! Malfoy? Working a case to save muggle-borns? And then teaching the poor students? Merlin's beard, he would be worse than Snape!" he groaned. Catching Harry's melancholy look, and McGonagall's reprimanding stare, he attempted to edit his previous statement, "I mean...great sacrifice on his part and all, but 'Arry, you remember the first six years, don't you?"

"You're fine with me, Weasley, what's wrong with Draco?" Theo said.

"You're not too bad, Nott. But I think we can both agree that Malfoy and I have not had the best past experiences," the wizard replied.

"It would do all of you well to forget past rivalries for the betterment of this school, and its students for the next several days, Mr. Weasley. But if you cannot, I can assure you that your booming business must need you in some capacity. No one would fault you for returning to help your brother, if you'd so chose," the Headmistress advised, peering above her glasses in disdain again. Ginny suppressed a short giggle, but Ron bleached in response to the not-so-subtle 'get out of my office if you can't behave' scolding.

"Potter, send a note to Mr. Malfoy-"

"Professor, shouldn't we inspect the Chamber of Secrets before anything else?" said Harry. His green eyes sat perfectly in the center of his round glasses.

McGonagall looked at the Trio and made a quiet note to herself to talk to Albus' painting later after the meeting. Here they were, so long after their initial years at the school, full-grown adults with full-grown brains and yet absolutely nothing had changed. Ron still had to be reminded of priorities and told not to pick fights. Hermione remained oblivious to the world, her nose mere inches away from the withering text of the old book as she jotted down something with frantic speed. And Harry, the boy she had placed on his aunt's doorstep almost twenty-six years ago, and the same boy who had gone to the Forbidden Forest to sacrifice himself to save his friends and family, now was talking about charging into another dangerous situation without a plan.

"No, Potter. First, we must consult an old friend," was all the witch said, as she opened a glass cabinet and drew from within the raggedy Sorting Hat.

* * *

**Malfoy's Apartment. **

Three hours after his return from the castle, Draco received a very small note from Potter which he refused to even open. Granger sent him a fucking essay (with references on the last page, because Merlin forbid, she plagiarized any of her absurd nonsense), detailing her case the next morning. Then Penelope's Howler barged into his office at four p.m., forcing him to leave early and hide in his apartment for the rest of the day.

The seventh floor flat teetered between minimalistic and manically sterile. The dreadful and brooding black Manor still frequented his nightmares, but this new abode shone with soft, smoky themes. A wall separated the sitting room, and the kitchen, but the floor-length windows that opened to the balcony provided a false perception of open space. Or so the realtor had said. Not as deadly as the Manor, the place still managed to suffocate him from time to time - and for that, he had hung a series of liquor glasses from a wooden rack, right above the stormy marble counter-top. Some nights he spent at the Leaky Cauldron, enjoying Abbott's hospitality, and on other nights he chose a poison from his personal collections, drank about eight to ten servings in one of the sculpted crystal glasses until he was pissed enough to send the very glass crashing to the dark bamboo flooring. Draco always kept his socks on in the kitchen space because barefoot he would still find dust of shards piercing his skin, no matter how thoroughly he cleaned. Save for the box bed in his room, the leather futon with slim padding in the sitting room and an ornate wooden desk in his study, the place housed no other furniture. Bare, cold, and unyielding to emotion.

Before their training with the Auror program began, for eight months Draco surrendered to his scars. His apartment mimicked his reckless ways, brimming with unneeded objects, furniture, and trinkets that served no actual purpose but just flaunted his wealth. He rotated between three women, mercilessly loving them on top of his dinner table, bar cart, and smashed up against the grandfather clock, among other places. The French one from Beauxbatons left first. Then the Irish one too. Finally, the half-blood witch he had met on one fateful night at the local pub in Wiltshire left because she had found actual love, not just a shagging-mate. Only once, had he pleasured the French and Irish women together. And even on that night, when both their velvety moans had harmonized, he could not shake off the guilt, the regret and the _bastard_ loathing that drowned his mind. So, as any respectable man ought to, he packed every single unnecessary item the morning after the Wiltshire girl took his leave and stripped his apartment bare. He sent everything away - almost the ink and the parchment too, but this he retrieved to write a letter to Theo to ask if he would consider Auror training (it proved to be a better distraction than sex, anyway).

Now, as he stood against the tall windows, the only color that filtered into his flat was from the sunbeams casting a golden hue. At five forty-five, Draco denounced alcohol for the evening and turned to the most obnoxious British pastime: tea. He was about to bring the mug to his lips, a copy of the annual report in his left hand, the binding pulled back, with several dog-eared pages, when he heard the Floo go off in his living room. He had granted only the Notts access, but for a second Draco contemplated hiding in the pantry in case it was Penny. He silently thanked Salazar when Theo's dark disorderly hair came into view, his beige trench coat damp - most probably from the recent rains in Scotland - and his face flushed.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, what makes you think you could ignore a pregnant witch's Howler without consequences?" the man said.

Before Malfoy could respond, Theo went on, his hands trembling from the cold and frustration.

"Do you know how many people it took to convince her not to hex you into another dimension? No, honestly, mate, if you have a death wish, have some else off you because I can't afford to raise this kid on my own while my wife rots in Azkaban over your head!"

Draco just pinched his nose with two long fingers and shook his head, a sarcastic grin playing on his lips. "And good evening to you too, Nott."

Theo, who had been controlling his anger out of respect for his friend, slipped back into his Slytherin skin. "Oh, fuck off. We're leaving for Hogwarts. _Now._"

"The Sorting Hat, was it helpful?" Draco contemplated. He put down his tea and the report and pulled his jumper's sleeves high on his forearms. The grey material hung close to his torso and arms, but the cashmere itched his skin and added to the restlessness. His hand reached for his hair and he ran through the blond strands, having found nothing else to fidget with.

"So, you read what Hermione wrote?" Theo questioned, arching his left brow so high that it disappeared into his black hair.

"Since when did Granger become 'Hermione'? Remind me to tell Penny to keep an eye on you," Draco chuckled, deflecting and struggling to cut through the tension.

Granger's given name tasted bitter in his mouth, almost like the alcohol he was avoiding this evening, but without the intoxicating effects. He had read the witch's essay, mostly to calm his budding curiosity about the curse. Apparently, picking up a fucking book from a shelf warranted a free entry to Potter's Fan Club, and for all intents and purposes, he considered the essay his first newsletter from the said Club's monthly subscription.

She wrote without a doubt. She didn't theorize her theories and she didn't state her _very _debatable hypotheses as propositions. No, the way she wrote of them, they were facts, already cemented in history, unavoidable. So many times, throughout her written rant, Draco found himself scoffing and yelling at absolutely nobody that her assumptions didn't make any bloody sense. But multiple times during the essay he also wished that Granger wasn't...well, Granger. He wished that the essay was written by Nott or Blaise, or Pansy even because if it was, he would have Flooed to their place right away for _so _many discussions.

"_Penelope_ is going to beat you the next time she sees you, so forget telling her anything except for apologizing. The others...are tolerable, I suppose. You, on the other hand," Nott said, a playful spark returned to his eyes as he pointed at the wizard, "are the devil's favorite spawn. Come to Hogwarts, take up the position McGonagall is giving you and until the school opens, help us, Draco." He was almost pleading this time. "Help me."

Theo turned, walked back towards the living room fireplace, peered over his shoulder to make sure that his best friend was following - he was, head hanging low in defeat, however - and stepped into the green flames.

"Oh yes," the wizard said to Malfoy as he grabbed some powder, "Don't forget to bring an umbrella."

* * *

**Hogwarts: Penelope Clearwater's Office. Fourteen Days Remaining. **

The first thing that Draco noticed about Penny's office was the water. He could smell the wet as soon as they arrived inside her well-kept space. The witch was by no means organized but somehow, her mess always seemed arranged - premeditated, almost. Now, there was no way Draco could tell if anything was out of place because all her belongings were shrouded under a thin plastic covering, beading with water drops all over. Upon closer inspection, Draco noted that only a desk and a dusky, pastel sofa remained in the room. The absence of the witch, her books, her photo frames, and her flower vases painted the room in an eerie light. Her husband stood in the middle and released a heavy breath. Outside the window, in the clear sky, the setting sun threw its rays far and wide to lands untouched by any rain.

As soon as Draco stepped over the fireplace ledge and onto the wooden floorboards, he felt the water trickle in though his suede shoes. Suppressing a groan, for they were his favorite pair, Draco sloshed across the office and stood next to his mate. The water oozed out of the thin wall cracks and if one looked close enough, they could see it bubbling through the oaken pores of the ceiling. The blond wizard's hair turned a shade darker as the strands moistened.

"Problem with the plumbing?"

"Nope, it's the bloody castle getting its revenge."

Reaching for his wand, Draco cast a _Reparo_ around the room and a drying spell on Nott and himself. Theo looked bemused, and he watched as Draco smirked with satisfaction as the dripping noise ceased and all the flooding water receded away. Five seconds passed, and just as the blond wizard was about to turn to his partner to make a smart-arse comment, a single drop gathered on the ceiling directly above him and dripped onto his pale cheek. Finally, Nott let out the barking laugh he had been holding in, as he made his way towards the door. Draco looked up as the indoor rain recommenced, words failing him, just as his magic.

"Oh, you should have seen the smug look on your face!" Theo coughed out between laughs, his eyes welling with amused tears.

"Shut it, Nott."

"Suits you well for not bringing an umbrella," the wizard said as they left his wife's office and he cast his own drying spell on them. This time, they stayed dry. "We've tried every spell; the water just won't stop in there. Penelope moved back home for the time being," he explained. Halfway through the corridor, Theo turned to face the other wizard and stuffed both his hands in his pockets, "Actually, mate, the Trio's agreed to meet us at the Three Broomstick. We're all going to come back to inspect the Chamber of Secrets, but with the castle being so volatile, it's best not to linger about."

"Ha! As if Salazar would lay a finger on us," Draco scoffed.

"I wouldn't be so sure, Malfoy," Theo uttered this with a strange, inquisitive look in his eyes as he pressed his mouth into a thin line. They moved again in long strides towards the Grand Staircase, briskly walked to the courtyard, and made their way towards the outer wards.

"What about the Sorting Hat?" the blond wizard repeated.

"It's complicated," was all Nott offered before the two wizards apparated to the Three Broomsticks Pub and Inn with a resounding crack that echoed through the empty grounds.

Hogsmeade bustled with hope, despite its empty streets. A shop owner had climbed on a rickety ladder and was hammering away at a sign just above his business' entrance. Across from him, a stout woman with a bucket of paintbrushes and a gaunt man with a stuffy mustache conversed. The man's thin, mouse-like voice bounced down the street as he slapped a dirty rag around his neck and made his way to another pub at the street's end. Three Broomsticks, too, seemed partly under the beautification process that gripped this village every year, a few weeks before the start of Hogwarts. Draco decided the village looked incomplete, though, without the snow-clad roofs and floating Christmas lights that began as early as November.

Before Theo could reach for the door to enter the Inn, Draco's hand pulled his friend back by the shoulder.

"Oi, Malfoy! What is it now?" Nott exclaimed, rubbing the strained spot on his ride side.

"Madam Rosmerta, does she still work here?" Draco said. His eyes darkened and he tried to peer over Theo's head to look at the barkeeper inside without any luck.

"Why, mate? Fancy a quick shag, eh? I reckon she's a bit old, though," Theo teased, a stupid grin grew all over his face as he nudged Draco in the ribs with an elbow.

Draco's eyes darkened even further, nearing a lump of pale coal. His jaw clenched and his hands turned to firm fists. The last time he had met the voluptuous landlady, Draco had _Imperio_'d her and almost killed Katie Bell. He recognized the emotion as soon as it seized his entire body - stiffening the muscles in his calves to a spasm and vibrating through him so violently that he had to snap his eyes shut to escape it. _Regret. _He had felt it before, on numerous occasions and he knew the short-term remedy: he drew three deep breaths that grounded him.

Theo understood in an instant, and he replaced his radiant smile with the only words he knew would bring his best-friend a little comfort, "No. No, she retired a few years ago."

* * *

**The Three Broomsticks**

Hermione played with the clip of her wristwatch, a keepsake from her mother. It had stopped telling time six months ago and she had been too busy to take it into one of the Muggle shops to have the batteries replaced. She began her subliminal chewing on her lower lip as the seconds ticked by. While the Sorting Hat had calmed the group's nerves, the persistent flooding in Penelope's office had renewed everyone's fears. The water was rather harmless, but the castle could not be trusted, especially with the witch's pregnant state. Although everyone had mutually decided on this hour to revisit the school, there wasn't a single soul in the pub except the barkeeper behind his counter and her on a long redwood table. He kept glancing at her in anticipation, so she ordered a Butterbeer just to quench his need to play host. Hermione ached to walk back to the castle on her own to start searching through the Chamber herself.

Instead, she resorted to her habit of drumming her foot impatiently against the creaky floorboards, throwing her attention to the various paintings, dusty signs and old menus that hung from the pub's walls. A picture of Dumbledore's Army lay perched beside the shelves of beer mugs and above the three barrels of assorted Butterbeers, a boar's head protruded out. It was dead, Hermione was sure, but its beady little eyes still moved across the room to spy on any thieving patrons. Three metal chains suspended a wooden wheel above her table with melting candles of all different sizes throwing shadows across the dingy place. Crowded with friends and family, the pub would appear inviting and warm but quiet and desolate, it quickly chilled the witch.

* * *

Her sodding blue blouse kept distracting the barkeep from making Draco's drink. The blond wizard sat in the shadows with his coat collar upturned, scowling at the leech. The witch before him grew more and more restless as the time passed and no one arrived. Twice the man behind the counter began to make Draco's Old-Fashioned, once with gin and then again with a muggle brand of whiskey, looking at her clavicles instead the glass. When Granger called him to order a Butterbeer, he accidentally added an olive instead of the traditional orange peel. After the third attempt, the imbecile finally arrived with Draco's fire-whiskey, much after hers, even though he had placed the order before her. The wizard downed the alcohol in a gulp and receded further into the booth that was safely tucked against the bricks, towards the back. Maybe he shouldn't have agreed to be a part of this at all. Even now, he considered trudging upstairs to the only fireplace in the whole Inn and going home but decided against it when he realized that Theo was using the same fireplace to make a Floo call to his wife.

Before Granger's wandering sight could pin him down and recognize his trademark features, Potter and Weasley entered the pub and laughed kindly at something the witch said. Soon after, Theo descended from the stairs and having caught Draco's inspecting gaze, beckoned him to join him at the long central table. Granger saw him emerge then, but despite the fact that her jaw slacked open in shock, she didn't say anything.

"Malfoy, heard you took up the Dark Arts post," Harry said, shooting a grim look at Ron who was muttering away sub-par insults.

"If the school opens, yes."

"And you're helping us to find and break this curse?" Hermione asked with doubt.

"Depends."

"On?"

"Whether you keep up this pointless questioning," said Malfoy, turning his glare on her.

Once the drinks were ordered, delivered and the conversation flowed, albeit, with some terse undertones, Harry cleared his throat.

"Nott said you were interested in what the Sorting Hat had to say," he said, observing Draco for any signs of deception.

"Well, yes."

"So, you _are_ helping then?" Hermione concluded with cold eyes. They could do without another Auror, there was really no need for Malfoy. In fact, feeling the heat rise to her face in response to his infuriating baiting, Hermione was sure that his addition would only be counterproductive to any real progress.

"I'm here aren't I, Granger?" Draco stood, walked to the bar and poured some more alcohol in his glass, already nursing a headache. "As long as the Dark Arts post is mine after all this is done and I don't have to sweat for Fungbury or his pawns any longer. Now, tell me what the wretched hat said or I'm walking out of here," he gritted. If Harry took offense at Malfoy's insinuation, he didn't show it. They were all Fungbury's pawns, after all, Draco included.

"Its exact words were, '_the oldest feud bows only to a bond even older - drag heat from its power and your home will be less colder_," said Hermione. She disregarded Draco who sauntered back to his wooden chair and lounged, keeping his eyes on her. She averted his gaze and spoke to the others instead. Fucking ferret, thinking he can boss her around. "The Hat agreed though with the book you picked out - it seems like the curse is from the Founders' times, meant to eradicate all muggle-borns. Although, the confirmation doesn't bring us any closer to actually solving this."

Theo was already nodding. "Hopefully, the Chamber of Secrets has something we can use. Any idea which feud or bond the Hat was talking about?"

Ron answered, rather proudly, "Don't know about the bond, but I reckon the feud was between Gryffindor and Slytherin."

"Maybe, the bond is between Slytherin and the school. Hogwarts was his weakness, right? He made this curse to save the school's reputation," Harry said. He looked at Hermione apologetically before continuing, "In his mind, he was not doing anything wrong. If we play on his love for the school, perhaps we can find out how to undo it."

"I asked Professor McGonagall if I could borrow a few books from the library earlier. I'll see if there is any other mention of curses by Slytherin," the witch offered.

Throughout the discussion, Draco's mind wandered as he played with the rim of his glass, circling it with the tip of his index finger. Slytherin's bond with the school _was_ ancient and strong. His house welcomed the most astute of students and offered the wizarding world a few of its best champions. The answer to Salazar's riddle would not be simple - no, it would beat their backs and bring them to their knees. His answer would be cruel, just like the famed wizard. Voldemort had been thick, Draco knew - powerful and terrifying but air-headed. The Dark Lord had chosen his vanquisher and cemented his own demise by leaping at the words of an incomplete prophecy. But Slytherin was the progenitor, the one who created the very throne that Tom Riddle so greedily lusted after. The Founder would not leave a curse to protect his legacy that could be solved in two weeks to allow the school's scheduled opening. He left a meaningless laugh escape, and then asked, "Potter, Voldemort was a direct descendant of Slytherin. In your, uh, research during the War, did you find any others?"

"No, but I can't be too sure," said Harry.

"We kept our focus on Voldemort at that time, but maybe we should look at ministry records to identify anyone else that could be a direct descendant. Perhaps, they have a motive behind this," Hermione added.

"Yes, that's good," said Harry, turning back to Draco. "Right, so we should go to the Chamber before it's too late. The plan is to be back before sundown. Malfoy, you stick with Nott. Hermione, you're with Ron. The school is turning more and more aggressive, so be careful. We apparate outside the school grounds, and walk to the Second Floor Girl's Lavatory, alright?"

The group shared a few nods and on their way out, Ron placed a protective yet firm hand on the back of Hermione's waist. "You're sure you'll be okay, 'Mione?"

She smiled with surprise, rolled her eyes and retorted with fire, "Oh, _please_, Ronald."

* * *

**Hogwarts: Corridor of Secrets**

Harry Potter led them. A visceral groan almost tumbled out of him when he stepped onto the bones of another animal and the memories from his second year rushed back with ferocity. Behind him, Nott, and Malfoy walked while casting dreadful looks at the smaller tunnels that branched out of the main one. Wands extended and burning at the tip with a _Lumos Maxima_, the five of them walked with haste_. _

Hermione hurried after Nott and Ron followed close behind. She slung her backpack over her right shoulder as it had come off while they had slid down the entrance. She held it securely - it was her life. The witch had cast two charms on her sleek, black, Ministry-gifted leather accessory - an undetectable extension charm (obviously) and a feather-light charm that increased the bag's weight tenfold if someone with intentions to loot her belongings picked it up. She was rather proud of her work; there was adequate space for her books (a total of twelve, including the Founders' one), a small space for her makeup (a lip balm, and an old mascara), and a section for friends' belongings (i.e. Ron's month old pack of chewing gum, Harry's map, an extra pair of his round eyeglasses, a scarf from Molly for the London weather, and a Tuscan red lipstick from Ginny that she didn't plan on returning, because on the two nights of the whole year when she actually wore the shade, it didn't look half bad). There was another section, one she didn't open often but was the most prized one of all - it housed a letter case with letters from her parents, their phone numbers on a small piece of paper (although, she had them memorized), and a picture of them with her at age seven. Her own specs were neatly folded in a woolen pouch, with the rest of her belongings - a seldom-used hairbrush, a jar with instant coffee, and a box with the best of her quills, pens, and pencils. She also carried a copy of her drafts and the current regulations for house-elves with her.

Occasionally, she would sit cross-legged on her carpeted living room floor and turn her bag upside down to watch all the contents race out. Then for the next two hours or so, she'd sort through each item, often finding lost things, missing pairs of earrings and old memos from coworkers. Once she had even found a Polaroid from one of Ginny's games of her and Ron kissing. They both had been decked from head to toe in Harpies gear and were snogging away drunkenly. She had tucked the photo deep inside her dresser drawer, refusing to cry over their faded love. Now as she looked back at the same man without any butterflies crowding her belly, Hermione decided that she compartmentalized rather well.

The shedded Basilisk skin, the crunching of the bones, black feces and blood that smeared the walls, had all sent the witch's nerves into overdrive. But she had walked calmly, drawing deep breaths through her mouth to avoid smelling the rot. It didn't help much though, because the taste of it had lingered on the tip of her tongue. Harry stopped at the front and beyond him, she saw the Chamber's door.

Two emerald-eyed, intertwined serpents posed to mark the entrance. Harry drew a steadying breath and looked back at his peers. He closed his eyes to open the Chamber for the second time in his life, but Hermione's scream throttled his hissing voice before it could awaken the guarding snakes.

She felt the crack develop beneath her before she saw the ground fissure - the quaking earth wobbled her knees, which she credited to her nerves at first. But within a second, the small splits in the ground below her rifted apart to reveal an endless dark gap. Perhaps it was instinct or pure Gryffindor luck or the steel grip on her right arm that caused her to move. But one thing she knew for sure - she hadn't made a conscious decision to lunge to her right to escape the swallowing earth. Yet, she found herself hurled away from the crack.

Hermione screamed, but only when her body crashed into solid flesh and her head made hard contact with someone's chest. The person whose fingers had pulled her away from her inevitable death must have hit the opposite wall with full force because she heard the unforgettable crack and snap of bones and found the person's weight heavy on her own form. She tried to breathe without success. Stray strands of fleece made their way deep into her mouth and nose from her savior's garments but there was no air. She tried - again, without success - to shove him off but his weight slumped on her even more, his sweater filtering out all the remaining oxygen. His weight even kept her eyelids sealed closed; her long lashes pressed flat across her face. She felt all of this and more.

Though the tingling sting of adrenaline had roused her and left her a few seconds ago, she knew that her hands trembled with aftershocks. Her rescuer didn't shake like her; in fact, while her attempts at sucking air echoed off the low tunnel walls in high-pitched wheezes, Hermione wasn't so sure she heard this man breathe at all.

"Fuck! Get- hmpf," she began. Finally, someone lifted the person off her. Harry seemed to be yelling, sounding shrill as he often did when rage or panic overtook his better judgment. There was another voice: quiet, stoic and yet grounding. Hermione focused on that instead. The voice called her surname, initially saying it with pent up frustration as if he was waiting for her to stop an act.

But then he commanded, "Granger, open your eyes."

His voice was laced with something entirely alien. Not worry, no, but not annoyance. Mild unease? Nervousness? When Hermione did blink away this train of thought and opened her eyes to the blinding glare of a _Lumos _being thrust in her face, almost touching her nose, she did so not because of his order. She did it because never had she heard _that_ voice speak _her_ name with anything but hatred, let alone an inkling of concern.

First, she saw how the crack had progressed to a chasm, gouging at the earth at least three floors deep. Fifteen feet wide, and eight feet tall, the hole had eaten away the whole left side of the tunnel in that area. It was her own personal gateway to damnation. With blurry vision, she then examined the bloodied man slumped across the wall before she shoved away the wand in her face and gaped straight into the eyes of the man crouching to her level. Again, the steel greys of his eyes grounded her and cleared her vision. They were glass-like, but paradoxically unreadable. Silvery and yet glaring with passionate hatred one minute and hiding seductive secrets the next - but never dull, never _just _grey. _Malf- _

"Have you gone deaf, Granger?" Malfoy said. The witch in front of him dazed on, her eyes flying wildly from Weasley to the crumbling wall, only to rest on his face at the very end. They were doe-like, her eyes. Despite her insufferable reputation, and childhood marriage to literature, her honey-brown gaze seemed innocent, even naive. Draco tightened his hold on his wand and peered back at the destroyed tunnel wall before his throat could run dry again.

"What happened?" slurred Hermione.

"That," Malfoy explained, cocking his head towards the crumbling debris of the tunnel and the wide gap, "was meant for you, it seems. Weasley pulled you out of the way."

Ron's form was still slouched across the wall from her. But it wasn't the Ron she had just laughed with, only five minutes ago. No, this man fashioned a grisly gash on his forehead from which blood ran to his chin. His left arm flumped precariously from its socket, mangled and twisted. His vision must have been blurred too because he squinted at her and mumbled negligibly, "Hermyyy…?"

Harry was hunched over the red-headed wizard and casting diagnostic spells faster than Hermione could think at the moment. Nott looped Ron's right arm around his neck and pulled the man up. The diagnostic hologram rose with him.

She rose too, rushing to her friend's side but soon realized her mistake when the tunnel began to spin counterclockwise. She reached to cup Ron's bloodied cheek, "Oh my god…I'm so sorry, Ron," she cried.

"Left arm's broken, shoulder dislocated. A concussion, blood loss, and…" Harry trailed off, running his hand through his hair, his green eyes clenching hard in despair.

"Potter, it's alright. He'll be alright. The three of you carry on, I'll take him to Penny. She's an angel with healing charms, he'll be better than before, I promise," Theo said. He looked at Harry and then at Hermione as if to ask their permission.

Harry swallowed, and nodded, before adding, "Send me a Patronus if anything happens. If anything changes in his condition, I want to know. And send an owl to George, if you can, he'll come at once."

Theo smiled in response and supported Ron with his left side. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled from within a small broomstick that fitted in his palm. He muttered an _Engorgio_, straddled the broomstick and guided Ron to sit behind him, before flying away in the opposite direction.

While Harry checked on Hermione (she brushed off his diagnostic charm), Draco took a step back from the broken ground and stared at the tunnel from where they had just entered.

"_Protego horribilis_," he whispered, hoping that the duo behind him wouldn't hear. But when he turned to face the entrance of the Chamber of Secrets again, Potter was regarding him with uncertainty.

"Thanks, Malfoy. But I think we ought to worry about what's inside rather than out here," said Harry.

To this, Draco rolled his eyes because Potter was really _such_ a bitch.

* * *

**Hogwarts: Chamber of Secrets**

They passed through the reptilian entrance and walked across a raised platform that led them to the center of the Chamber. Salazar's statue stood high, dwarfing them on one side. In the center and towards the back wall, Slytherin's face appeared inhumane on stone. The black stone around the Chamber cooled the air to an unbearable temperature. Potter stood in the middle, waiting, as if he was a patron at a restaurant, being patient until a server arrived with his order.

"Harry," said Granger, whispering, for some reason. "Say something!"

When Potter opened his mouth again, his hisses slithered off the high walls and bounced back to fill the eerie silence. Draco could never grow accustomed to parseltongue, even though Voldemort had used it frequently at the Manor to talk to his beloved pet. He shuddered but noticed that even Granger had goosebumps on her arm. Potter, himself, masked his face well, but behind his trepidatious facade, there was an ounce of discomfort. The Chamber waited several seconds, and Draco could almost _hear_ it judging its latest visitors and their intent.

Eventually, the walls spoke. A deep growling voice boomed, so different from Potter's sibilant speech.

"Harry Potter. Half-blood," the voice said.

Granger looked at her friend with accusing eyes, "What did you say, Harry?"

Before Potter could respond, the voice spoke again, "Hermione Granger. Mudblood."

The witch snarled in response, extending her wand out, she spat, "Show yourself, you coward."

When no response came to her threat, she said, "_Homenum Revelio._"

But the spell only revealed that they were alone.

"The only thing I said was 'Is anybody there?'" Potter whispered over his shoulder.

"You come here to seek answers, but, I'm afraid, I will leave you with more questions," said the voice. It had a gravel-like texture, as if the sound wasn't a product of vocal cords, but rather, two bricks rubbing together to form fractured words.

"Fine. Tell us about the curse then," said Potter. He moved around the Chamber, casting basic spells to track Dark Magic.

"The _blessing_ is ancient. As ancient as I," seethed the voice. Draco moved too, casting non-verbal spells around the eastern half, which all confirmed that there was no Dark Magic within the place at all.

"And who _are_ you?" Draco said, raising an eyebrow and staring at Salazar's face that covered the back half of the Chamber - mostly because the mammoth structure demanded attention so greedily.

"Ah, now this is unfathomable," the gritty voice rose. After a brief pause, it began again, "Draco Malfoy. Pureblood. Perhaps, I may trust my answers with you."

Draco exchanged a tentative glance with Potter.

"Who are you?" Granger demanded. Draco noticed now that her blue blouse was stained with Weasley's blood.

"Salazar Slytherin - none of his body, none of his mind, but all of his memory, Mudblood," the voice confessed.

"His Horcrux, then?" Potter said.

"No, not his Horcrux. His memory that he left, protected within the Chamber," said the voice. "Salazar Slytherin took his anger the day he left this school and buried it deep within the castle walls. He could not bear to see his beloved Hogwarts fall prey to the unworthy muggles. He housed me within so that when his rightful heir demanded it, I could turn the castle against its mudblood filth."

The grating noise stopped for an instant as if it was contemplating whether it could show them all his cards. But shortly after pausing, the voice resounded against the walls once more.

"He bred the King of Serpents to ensure that only his own blood could enter this Chamber since the snake would only listen to Slytherin's true heir; whereas I answered to anyone who survived the snake, heir or not. The Basilisk was not the monster of the Chamber of Secrets, boy. I am," the voice boasted.

Potter shook his head in denial, playing with his light stubble, his eyes were downcast and deep in thought. Granger rummaged through her bag and pulled from within the text Draco had picked up in McGonagall's office only yesterday. She began flipping through the pages, her eyes flying so fast over the words that there was no way that she was actually reading or comprehending. Trust the witch to pull forth a sodding textbook in the middle of a _very _unsettling interrogation.

"When Tom Riddle came, he cursed me to be silent and he bound me to him, for he knew that should my testimony become common knowledge, his followers would come to see him for what he, truly, was: a selfish wizard, only pushing for blood purity to gain personal power and immortality. He used my snake for his murders and then you slew the beast while I was forced to stay muted and imprisoned! But Slytherin's rage, his pain from the Founders' betrayal, could not die so easily. I was freed by you, Harry Potter. When you destroyed Tom Riddle, you set Slytherin's rage free."

Potter remained indifferent. Granger, having found nothing in that sodding book of hers, had returned it to her bag, and was looking at her friend with concern.

"Voldemort, he championed your cause, though," Draco offered, choosing to ignore the fact that he was _literally _talking to a wall. It was starting to seem like he was the only one here with a working brain to carry the conversation.

"No, boy. He mutilated my cause to serve his needs. He used my home to stage his wars. My snake was laid to waste, its venom was used by mudbloods, half-bloods, and blood traitors to destroy his soul. Indeed, he was my heir, but not my follower," the voice lamented.

"He massacred thousands for your ideals!" Granger shouted, her eyes had finally snapped away from Potter and she wore a deadly glare. She itched something on her left arm as if to remove it, and glowered. "People were tortured, murdered, rap-"

"Careful, Mudblood. I haven't spilled dirty blood in a very long time - do not tempt me," the voice threatened. "Do you know, filth, what Riddle's boggart was? It wasn't a wizarding world ruled by your kind and the squibs, no. It was his own corpse. Everything he did was an act of self-preservation."

"And your curse? Is that your act of self-preservation?" quipped Potter, coming back to the present from his reverie.

"It is an act of kindness, Harry Potter. Consider it my gift."

"We don't want it," Draco argued, much to Granger's surprise. She narrowed her eyes to regard him with suspicion, but he continued to glare at Salazar's stone sculpture.

"How do we end this?" questioned Potter, taking a step towards the walls and pressing his hand firmly against the cold stone.

"Cleanse the school of all Mud-"

"How else?" Potter insisted, gritting his teeth sharply.

"Ask the casters, boy," the voice said.

"Casters?" said Granger. "You mean there's more than one? And it wasn't you?"

"I am Slytherin's rage, not Slytherin himself. A witch or a wizard must command me."

"Who commands you?" Draco asked.

"Two brothers, equally guilty. Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange," the voice confessed. "They came during the early summer months after all the children had departed home and the last of teachers had left. They said Riddle taught them enough parseltongue were he to die to enter the Chamber."

"And they commanded you to do this? To infect the school, send it attacking after Penelope and Hermione?" Potter was effectively bubbling with fury. "You've been whispering into the paintings' ears, trembling the walls, moving the stairs to the dungeons? I thought you said you only listen to Slytherin's heirs."

"I have been...gaining power, half-blood. It's an insidious process. And no, I said the Basilisk only listened to Salazar's heirs, which is why it was protecting my existence from everyone else. I am free to listen to whoever commands me."

"Then, I command you! Stop destroying the school, stop threatening the students, and the teachers! Just stop!" huffed Potter.

"I cannot, not until my oath to the brothers' is complete."

"The oldest feud bows only to a bond even older - drag heat from its power and your home will be less colder - what does it mean?" Granger said, to no one in particular. Only a minute ago, her voice had resonated with authority but now she was much quieter. Draco noticed that the corners of her eyes were tightly pulled, and the tip of her nose had turned a fervent pink. A swollen bulb of tear brimmed on the edge of her lower eyelid, threatening to spill over her blushed cheek, but she blinked rapidly to send it away.

"You are a clever little wench, aren't you, Hermione Granger? It will bring me insurmountable pleasure to save you till the very end."

Draco felt his magic surge and crackle through his wand. This was getting rather repetitive, and boring. Salazar's blasted beard, he couldn't even hex the fucking voice! Sighing to relieve the tension so tightly knotted in his lungs, Draco continued his protest with renewed stubbornness, "As the only living heir of the Noble House of Black, and on my honor as a Malfoy, I command you to tell me how to end this curse!" His voice dropped lower and lower as his words climbed with wrath, "Or so help me, Merlin, I will drag my uncle and his foul brother in here and spill their blood on your floor, before I make you wish you were even less than a voice."

He could feel Potter and Granger's weighty, wide-eyed stares drilling into him, but Draco refused to acknowledge their bewilderment. Instead, he rested both his hands on his hips and cast a black look around the Chamber.

"Brave of you to challenge the spite of a wizard even Tom Riddle feared," countered the voice, but offered wisdom regardless. "Salazar bound his anger to the castle walls after he was cursed with the Founders' betrayal. Perhaps, the only way to break the curse is to become the curse itself - to understand the Founders," the voice said with finality.

The grating stopped and Granger breathed out, "...to understand a bond even older."

Potter nodded with apprehension at her conclusion.

"I don't think we're going to get much out of him," he said. He looked at Granger, then at Draco, before he began to return towards the entrance.

Granger turned on her heels towards Slytherin's statue, pointed her wand at his face, and calmly uttered, "_Bombarda Maxima_."

A loud bang followed as stones crumbled to the floor, but Potter did not look back. Draco picked up the piece nearest to him and examined the grotesque, nose-shaped marble. When he looked at Granger, he saw her waving away the debris and dust from around her face, a triumphant smile gracing her features. And when he arched his neck to peer at Slytherin's tall form, he recognized the wizard's feet, his fine cloak, even his hands clasped in the middle in a pose, but the sculpture ended at his shoulders. Salazar's neck and bald head lay shattered to pieces on the ground around them.

If she had done this during their school days, he would have undoubtedly hexed her - and he would have called it self-defense to salvage his House pride. Instead, charged with repulsion towards the evening's events, Draco found himself, reluctantly, smiling along with the vixen.

As he sauntered after the witch, one hand in the pocket of his dress pants and the other running through his light hair, he stared at Granger's wild hair from the back. The way it swept across her petite back as if it were a mane or a regal cloak. Her hips didn't taunt him like Astoria's and her walk didn't call to him as Pansy's did. But she walked with fire as her train. He took in her relatively small frame but gulped with fear.

_Motherfucker._ How, in the span of one evening, had he gone from enjoying tea as an ideal, non-meddling, stone-hearted Slytherin to cursing at Salazar himself and gawking at Hermione Granger?

* * *

**Fin.**

**Love,**

**Kore.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Heya :) Here's chapter three, a day early and **_much_** shorter than I originally intended it to be. Oops.**

**Much love to you all,**

**Kore.**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Loss and Wrath**

**Hogwarts. Fourteen Days Remaining. **

Behind them, Hogwarts stood dark and ominous as Harry, Hermione, and Draco walked away from the school in silence.

The Boy Who Lived thought of the Marauders, how every last one of them had died because of Voldemort. He missed James and Lily's scream echoed in his ears. He thought of Sirius and Remus. Then Dumbledore. And Cedric, too. He remembered Moody and Tonks and Fred and Lavender and Snape and so many others who had died for this school, for its students and for peace in the wizarding world.

Even though the War was almost a decade old, Harry had only begun to enjoy his non-endangered life about two years ago. He had ignored the fanfare, the publicity, and the celebratory parades that had engulfed his world after Voldemort's demise. He could not run away from the funerals and the ministry inquiries. During his worst anxiety attacks, Ginny would find him sitting by his parents' graves - numb, not crying, not shaking, just staring at the tombstones. The trauma softened after the third year, and despite their tumultuous start after the final Battle, even Ginny and his relationship had settled.

He had long foregone his hold on peace and sanity; Harry knew they were not written in his stars. But this curse threatened his family and the very wizarding world his loved ones had died to protect. The more he thought about it, the more sure he became that he would return to St. Jerome's graveyard tomorrow at the latest.

Behind him and Hermione, Malfoy walked in silence, too. It hit Draco that, according to the Chamber's voice, the Lestranges had come to Hogwarts just this past summer when the three of them crossed the Viaduct Bridge. He and his mother had walked across the same bridge in defiance to the Dark Lord when Potter had reawoken from his deathly slumber to surprise Voldemort. Grasping his hand tightly, she had pushed against the swarming sea of Death Eaters and led them away from the Battle. Lucius had followed with much reluctance, but Narcissa's resolve had remained absolute.

They had hidden in Finland for two days and spent three weeks after that holed up in a cottage along the Chilean coastline. Only when Narcissa had personally visited Potter to confirm Voldemort's death and had secured their safe return, and a subdued trial, had she allowed Draco and Lucius to return to London. She was a fierce woman, unbending, calculated, and astute - a Slytherin, through and through. Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw his father's grey eyes and his striking platinum blond hair. Still, Draco knew that his sharp nose and high cheekbones - in his personal opinion, his best features - belonged to his mother. He found her in himself in many ways - his slender fingers bent like hers, his hair was just as light and wispy, and on the rare occasion when Draco _really_ laughed (holding his stomach, eyes filled with tears, face scrunched with delight), he sounded exactly like his mum.

And maybe that's why he didn't laugh as much. The sound of it haunted him terribly.

Five months after the Battle, Draco had awoken to find Slughorn knocking at his dorm's door. The head of Slytherin had enveloped him in an embrace at one in the morning, weeping, and immediately he had stiffened.

"It's your mother, my boy," was all the Professor had said. But there was no need to say even that much. Draco had surmised as soon as the knocks had sounded on his door that something had changed. Draco had suspected it to be his father. In fact, he had hoped that Lucius had been caught red-handed engaging in some Death Eater activity and was being escorted to Azkaban overnight. Perhaps he wished too sincerely for his own father's demise, for Lucius, too, left the heir orphaned, only a short six months after his wife's passing, plagued by a broken heart.

The Aurors caught Rudolphus Lestrange for the murder of Narcissa Malfoy on the forenight before her wake. His trial and imprisonment were uncomplicated - he boasted about her torture, and his wand provided the incriminating evidence. Draco kept himself out of it all. He mourned her every day behind closed doors for three years. He would fill the bathtub and climb in without shedding his clothes. Slowly, Draco would sink underneath the surface. There, his cries were muffled, his tears indistinguishable from the bathwater, and his anguish drowned.

Seven years after, contrary to Rita Skeeter's firm belief that Draco had well moved on from his parents' tragic deaths, and healed from the loss through women, alcohol, and money, the wizard, still found it difficult to even think about them. He only visited the Manor a few times every year to check on the property and the house-elves who kept themselves busy with something or the other. And even during those visits, the only reason he could bear to steal a glance at their family portraits was because he cajoled himself with the fact that the Lestranges were decaying in Azkaban.

But not anymore. He stopped suddenly and whirled around to face the castle. For a moment, he contemplated running to the Chamber alone and interrogating the voice about his uncles' whereabouts. In the background, he could hear Potter calling his name. Granger's voice broke through the rage.

"Try 'heir of the Noble House of blah blah blah,' maybe he'll respond to that," she snorted.

When he turned around, a smirk slipped off her face.

"Watch it, Granger," he retorted with a bite, "I wouldn't mock a pureblood so close to the school grounds."

Stepping between the two, Harry said, "I'm going to run to my office - if the Lestranges truly came to Hogwarts, then we need to alert the Ministry and search Azkaban."

Draco nodded absentmindedly. _Right, there was a wholeass curse to solve.  
_

"The Lestranges have been in Azkaban for a long time, Potter," said Draco. "If they escaped, the Ministry would have known by now. Also, the voice was divulging some rather helpful information for no reason at all, it was odd, to say the least. If it hasn't occurred to you yet, might I point out that this voice should not be trusted entirely."

"And what if what the voice said is true, Malfoy? I can't just ignore the lead," countered Harry. "Maybe, your pureblood status won us favors?"

"It isn't true, it can't be," Draco exasperated. He looked at the daunting castle in the background and gulped. Hesitantly, he said, "But…if you find out that it is…owl me first," then, as if to add an afterthought, he said, "before you tell anyone else, especially Nott."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because, Potter," lied Draco, "Rodolphus murdered my mother, and was targeting my father and me before he got caught. I would like to know as soon as possible if I should be watching my back."

Before Hermione or Harry could answer, the wizard had already apparated away, wearing an unreadable expression with stormy eyes. The witch offered her best friend a tight smile, placed her hand on his arm.

"To the Auror office, then?" she said.

"To the Auror office," he confirmed with a nod.

Within an instant, the two of them also felt the pull of apparition as they were whisked away to the Ministry. Harry sent a letter to Azkaban, one to Fungbury and one to Shaklebottom; they were almost all identical, detailing the evening's events. Then the wizard made a quick Floo call to his fiancé and George, who reported that Ron was recovering well under Molly Weasley's watchful eye.

Hermione had long dusted off the Lestranges' files and had dived into the details of their arrest, trial, and sentencing. She found Harry's insistent pacing terribly annoying but decided not to mention it. At two in the morning, with tired feet, the wizard finally settled in a chair across from her, grabbed one of the files, and began reading. The duo read for one more hour - occasionally muttering their findings out loud - before Hermione's head bobbed sideways, heavy with sleep, and she surrendered to the urge to rest her eyes. Harry, too, followed soon after.

* * *

Draco began drinking that night as soon as he entered his flat. The grim reality settled on his shoulders and weighed down his neck. He broke three glasses before losing consciousness. When he awoke at noon the next day, he drank until two, chugging straight from the decanters. At two-thirty in the afternoon, he received an owl from Potter confirming their worst fears, and his best hope: the Lestrange brothers had somehow gotten access to wands and escaped from Azkaban over the summer. Under a strong disillusionment charm, the guards hadn't noticed their absence.

Upon reading the note, Draco let out a howl-like maniacal laugh. He strode into his office, pulled open the desk's drawers with violent speed and thrust all its contents into a men's leather satchel. Vials of the Draught of Living Death, Pepperup, Skele-Gro, Veritaserum, and Essence of Dittany clamored within as he cast the extension charm and added more maps, an extra wand, and other survival essentials into the growing space.

* * *

**The Nott House. Thirteen Days Remaining.**

"I'm sorry, go back, you did _what_?" Theo almost shouted despite himself.

"...I just talked to Kingsley, he said-"

"No, no, before that, Potter. The part about writing to Draco!" Now Theo _was_ shouting. Penelope came running down the stairs and shot Hermione a quizzical look, who just shrugged her shoulders in response.

Harry and Hermione had spent the entire morning running from the Ministry to the Burrow and back to the Ministry. When they had arrived at the Notts' residence to discuss the details, Penelope had welcomed them in graciously. Harry had already finished his tea and a strawberry scone. Hermione sipped on her pink lemonade and petted the Bombay house cat, Nox - who, hearing Theo's raised voice, bared her teeth at Harry.

"Yes, I wrote to him first, almost an hour ago. He asked me to, he said the Lestranges might try to target him," explained Harry. "If you'd like, I can ask Fungbury to send one of the men for his protection-"

"For _his_ protection?" Theo scoffed with disbelief, and a dry smile stretched across his face. "Draco Malfoy has played you, Potter."

"I'm sorry, I don't quite understand."

The bespectacled man shifted uncomfortably and looked between the Notts for any sort of explanation. Penelope appeared stunned, but then she moved to her husband's side and began whispering with concern. When neither acknowledged him, Harry looked at his best friend for help, but even she seemed lost in a daydream.

"It means, Harry, that Malfoy wasn't afraid of being targeted," Hermione murmured as she rose from her post on the carpeted ground, grasping her glass of lemonade tightly with two hands. Her complexion paled as the realization dawned on her. "He wanted to know first so he could get a head-start on hunting them down himself."

The tense air settled densely upon them all. No one moved for a moment, except for Nox, who nudged Hermione's leg.

The smile on Theo's face vanished, and his hard stare acknowledged Hermione with a bit of wonder. He nodded his head in understanding, before mumbling, "Brightest witch of her age."

* * *

**Draco Malfoy's Apartment. Thirteen Days Remaining.**

Realizing that his own wand was missing, Draco searched everywhere, knocking over more decanters and glasses. He tried _Accio-_ing his wand with the spare one, but his words slurred. When all else failed, Draco even found himself lying on the ground, eyeballing the space underneath the futon for it. When his hand slipped, and his weight landed on a piece of broken glass, he failed to register the cut or the pain.

No one ever rang the muggle bell, his visitors either Flooed into the apartment or were escorted by him, often, straight to his bed. So when the bell did ring, he stood bewildered for a second amid the mess. It rang again, longer this time. He answered the intercom, hesitantly, not knowing what to expect when he pressed the 'Talk' button.

"Who the fuck is it?" he barked out.

"Malfoy. It's me, Granger. Open up," came the response, staticky, as if she was speaking from another planet.

After he buzzed her in, a few minutes passed, and then he heard her approaching footsteps before they halted at the door, and her knocks resounded across his silent flat. He opened the door only a crack and gaped at her. Her sodding molten eyes, and the dark lashes that framed them. The sprinkle of freckles on her nose and her stupid fucking lips that hung plump like ripened fruit.

"What?" he questioned, not quite sure if he was more upset at himself or her.

"It's bad manners not to invite your guests in, Malfoy," she said. The witch pushed at the door with all her weight and barged into his home.

"What the fuck, Granger? Get out," he commanded, frowning at her.

"You're bleeding," was all she said. He followed her gaze down to his left palm and saw his blood trickle down from the gash to his index finger before a drop landed on the floor.

"Nothing I can't fix. Get out," he said again. This time it didn't sound as convincing as he began to scour the room for his wand, again. Instead, having found his satchel and a vial of Dittany within, Draco began pulling at the stopper, one-handed, with no success.

"Malfoy," Hermione said, offering her hand to help. When he failed to respond, she called him again, "Malfoy, give it to me."

A smile crept across his face, but the rest of his features remained ominous. He had never changed out of yesterday's grey jumper, so now it wore wrinkles like his skin wore scars. His pants, too, seemed stale. The strands of his blond hair that never disobeyed him otherwise now were positively disheveled. The bags under his eyes throbbed heavily, so much so that Draco was afraid that if his eyes closed to blink, he would fall asleep standing up. With tauntingly slow speed, he brought the vial to his mouth and pulled off the stopper with his teeth. _See, Granger, I'm perfectly capable. _He spit the stopper out and poured the essence of Dittany carelessly over his left palm. The smile was gone. The gash was too. His gaze on her stayed, though.

She didn't dare surrender under the hold of his glare. Instead, she crouched down to the hardwood floor and picked up a shard of glass. As she walked across the flat, her boots crushed the smaller crystal pieces - the bigger shards she sidestepped to avoid - and the sound reminded her of the previous evening and the _crunch_ of rodent bones and remains in the Corridor of Secrets. When she stood two feet away from Malfoy, Hermione transfigured the piece of glass in her hand to a gauze roll. Malfoy raised a questioning eyebrow in return. She reached for his hand but stopped before touching him. Her eyes shot up to meet his, but still, he didn't look away, daring her to continue. She touched his thumb on the injured hand and raised it higher.

It happened just like that. In an instant, yet definitively. One minute he was wobbling a little under the firewhiskey's effects, and the next, he stood alarmingly straight. The alcohol drained out of him, and if someone saw him at the moment, they'd think his blood had run dry too, from the paleness of his skin. His palm was still wet with the essence. With skilled fingers, Hermione wrapped the scabbing skin with the gauze and neatly tucked the loose ends in to secure the bandage.

During her seventh year, the witch had debated between pursuing an internship in Belgium to become a Healer and taking up an entry-level job at the Ministry. She had needed money more than anything else during those months, especially with her parents' regular sessions with a memory charm specialist. The Ministry's job enticed her as it came with the standard perks of being employed by the government: an honorable pay, a steady pension, and free access to all branches of the Ministry libraries. And so she had burned the acceptance letter to the Belgian school with much frustration, persuading herself that she could master a lot of healing practices through research and independent study. Over the past six years, the witch had amassed an exceptional collection of books on advanced cures, medicinal potions, and restorative spells. And all of this knowledge, she used in her own department when wounded house-elves were rescued from their animalistic masters.

Draco was no house-elf, but she couldn't help her instinct.

"You should leave," he said, observing her dainty hands as she worked on his. Pansy got manicures every week. He knew this because Theo complained about it incessantly when the two had dated three years back. Granger's hands were far from manicured - in fact, small scars marked her skin all over. And yet, there was a grace in the way she handled a piece of gauze, more elegance than Pansy or Astoria, or even the French woman ever had.

"Nott wanted to come here, himself. He sent me to keep an eye on you while they look for the Lestranges," she replied instead. He exhaled sharply at her last word and averted her gaze. "You can't go after them, not in this state. You haven't taken one step outside your own apartment, and you're already bleeding! The Ministry is involved now, you have to trust their efforts, Malfoy."

"The Ministry?" scoffed Draco, flinching out of her touch and reaching for the nearest bottle of Odgen's. As soon as he swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, he was already thirsty for more. "The same one you lot ran from during the War? The same Ministry that didn't have a fucking clue that two Death Eaters - murderers and rapists, too, mind you - had escaped from their prison three months ago until we alerted them only yesterday? You want me to trust that Ministry now, do you?" His eyes narrowed mockingly, and the corner of his lips upturned maliciously.

"Kingsley is personally overseeing this," the witch protested, dismissing his remarks with a deep sigh. "The rest of the Ministry might be backlogged and slow, but yes, you can trust Kingsley, you must. Also, when Harry, Ron and I ran, you know the circumstances were diff-"

"He murdered my mother," Draco spat out, taking a step into Hermione's space, and glaring at her intently. "So, please, Granger, _do not_ lecture me about different circumstances, and-" the murderous smile returned - "kindly, do me a favor, and _fuck off_, alright?"

She didn't falter.

"Nott told us how hard you worked for the Auror program, Malfoy. How it was rigged against you all along, how you and he had to train twice as long to prove your worth. Don't throw all of that away. If you go rogue - whether you find them or not - not many people will welcome you back into the wizarding world, not for the second time."

A frenzy overtook him, and he appeared almost alien. "Do I look like I give a flying fuck?" he challenged, raising an eyebrow as he gritted the words out.

Draco's shoulder vibrated with fury, and the darkness that eclipsed his features nearly forced Hermione to wonder whether he was still a Death Eater. At that moment, she sympathized with the man in front of her. She knew he hated himself for the angry tears that had welled up in his tired eyes in her presence.

Draco, on the other hand, felt the emotional cables snap one by one until he knew he was hanging on to sanity only by Merlin's graces and nothing else. And to save him from this crisis, Theo had sent the one person, apart from his own thoughts, who could drive him to the edge of madness. Granger stood a foot away, holding that same goddamn pitiful look in her eyes from the seventh year. Only, in this instance, he knew he deserved the pity. There he stood - barely too because he was practically shaking with anger - in his clothes that reeked, with a bloodied hand, no wand to hex this woman off and without a clue in the world as to how he would exactly avenge his mother's murder. Bugger, he pitied himself, too.

When she spoke again, she did so with the quietest of voices, "Pretend all you want with me, Draco, but before you make any rash decisions, ask yourself one question: would Narcissa want you to do this?"

He didn't respond, but the crazed aura melted off of him, and for the second time in less than twenty minutes, he felt her sobering effect. She didn't move for the longest while. Then suddenly, the witch turned on her heel and made for the door. Grasping the doorknob, she peered back at the wounded wizard and finally said, "The Ministry still doesn't know about the school's curse entirely - just rough details. Harry has put you as lead Auror on the case. I'll be at the Broomsticks whenever you're ready."

With that, she left.

* * *

**Draco's a lil bitch in this one. But understandably so. Let me know what you think! The main reason why I didn't include his anger and loss in the last chapter was because it was already so lengthy, because I didn't wanna deal with his emotions while they were still in the Chamber, and because I thought it would be better to focus only on the curse schmurse then. he is moody AF but its part of his charm, in my humble opinion hehe.**

**~Kore.**

**P.S. im exceptionally proud of the name Nox Nott. No really, I might go buy a black cat just so I can name her that and cuddle her. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Rated M for language and violence. ****JKR own everything, as always.**

**Like? Love? Hate? Don't care? Let me know! Next chapter shall be up around April 24th.**

**Happy reading during these horrendous days,**

**Kore.**

* * *

**Chapter Four: Then Somebody Bends, Unexpectedly**

**The Grangers' Cottage. Thirteen Days Remaining.**

Hermione struggled with patience. The early evening air crept maliciously into her lungs, causing her to shiver. The sun sank further down the orange-pink sky, and she wondered how long it would take for the day to end. Her father sat across from her, reading a tabloid from last week, and her mother had her nose buried deep into Aristotle's _Treatise on Rhetoric_. Surprisingly, she was the only one around the garden tea table who wasn't reading. Taking away the book from her mother's hands, she said, "Can't you just tell me, mum? What's bothering you?"

Her mum's striking olive-green eyes burned with disappointment. The older woman pressed her mouth firmly together. She looked at her husband, who shrugged his shoulders and hid further behind his magazine with an unconvincing frown.

"Oh, stop it, you two! Please, just say something?" Hermione pleaded.

Still, the pair of dentists kept mum. The older woman exhaled deeply and let her shoulders sag.

"Are we expected to carry on as if everything is normal, dear?" Her mother questioned in return when no help arrived from her dad. "The school is cursed, fine, but why must you be involved? And if you _are_ involved, should we prepare ourselves to be robbed of you and our memories once again?"

A betraying tear ran down her mum's cheek, and her voice wavered with accusation. The questions shredded past the defensive walls Hermione had erected around her heart. _She_ was the robber, the culprit, the one who stole her own parents' peace. The one responsible for so many of their scars. In trying to guard them from the War, she had damaged them more than anyone else. She stared back at her mother, confounded.

"Now, now, Jean, she _is_ your daughter, after all. Can't expect her to keep out of-"

A simple, yet well-practiced look from his wife cut Dr. Granger off. The mother took her daughter's hand in her grasp and peppered it with soft kisses.

"Promise me, love, no matter what happens this time, you'll tell us."

Her gaze bore into her daughter, demanding an answer. Hermione tasted salt on her lips and realized she was crying too. Tucking her unruly hair out of the way, she managed her most reassuring voice. "It's nothing, mum. Just someone's mischief is all. I'll be safe. But yes, I promise I won't do anything like last time without asking you first."

Her father had abandoned the magazine. His arms held his wife, who wept with heavy sighs. She had let go of her daughter's hand, but Hermione reached forth and pulled her mum's fingers back into her lap, pressing them gently.

"Don't worry, okay? I'll be safe," she repeated, mostly to herself.

The witch apparated to her own place shortly after and drew a warm bath, offering the scalding water a few rose petals from her parents' garden. Shedding her clothes, when she eased into the tub, she thought of how under the bubbles, her skin could be as clear as she imagined. No scars, no reminders of her 'filthy blood' etched across her arm, no leftovers from the War. All her scars told stories, and perhaps she could recite them herself if the horrors didn't suffocate her every day.

Hermione studied her palms and the backside of her hands. The thought of another Lestrange touching her again suddenly cooled the bathwater to an uncomfortable temperature. Before her muscles could melt against the petals and the bubbles, she jumped out and dried herself, wrapping the towel under her armpits securely.

With her hair still wet and dark, she slipped into an oversized white cotton t-shirt that advertised a muggle waterpark that her father had taken her to many years before. She tucked the baggy ends under the seams of her high waisted satin sleeping shorts and was just about to comb through her hair when the knocks came at her door.

"_Accio _wand," whispered the witch, tiptoeing towards the door, and sparing a glance towards the clock. It was definitely past courteous visiting hours.

Through the peephole, Malfoy's platinum blond hair supplied her with the needed information. Stuffing the wand into the seams of her shorts at her waist, she hesitantly opened the door a crack and plastered on a tight smile.

"Yes?" she said. The wizard's head snapped up, and he smirked. His alabaster skin looked even paler shrouded in his black coat and the dimly lit street.

"Isn't it bad manners to not invite your guests in, Granger?" he quipped, raising an eyebrow.

She hung on to the door and gaped at her visitor until she remembered their conversation only a few hours back.

"Come on in," she said, pulling the door wider. The pureblood wizard sauntered into her home and studied the entrance corridor. As soon as his gaze lingered on the pictures of her with her friends and families, she decided his presence was far too intrusive already.

Her impatience jogged again. "If you're done ogling, Malfoy, can we get on with it?"

"You were supposed to be at the Broomsticks," he replied, still studying the photographs. The one with Harry, Gin, and Ron moved, but the ones with her parents were fixated. After a moment's pause, Malfoy turned to her, but pointed at muggle pictures, and said, "What's wrong with these?"

"There's nothing _wrong_ with them - muggle ones just don't move," said Hermione, meeting his inquisitive eyes. Then after a beat, she added, "I waited for almost two hours at the Broomsticks."

"Right," said Malfoy, shifting on his feet, yet keeping his perplexed gaze on her. "And those are your parents, then?"

"Yes," she said with a quiet, far off voice.

Again, she fought to control the anxiousness that captured her heart and throat when she thought of her parents. Just earlier that afternoon, worries of her parents had riddled her mind, and she had apparated from the Three Broomsticks to their home in Greenwich right away. Seven years ago, Hermione had even brought them a firearm, a small revolver with just five bullets after they had returned from Australia, but her mother had refused it outrightly. In fact, Jean Granger had been so appalled by her daughter's suggestion that they hadn't spoken for weeks on end. Hermione had long given up on convincing her parents, which left them entirely unarmed against the darkest of magic. Suddenly, the most obvious question dawned on her.

The witch narrowed her eyes and examined the man. "How did you find me?"

"Same way you found me - you asked Nott, I asked Potter," he said, sounding as uninterested as ever.

"That's not possible, we've warded our houses together, only Secret-Keepers can see through the Fidelius Charm-"

"Is there a point to all this babbling?" he queried, leaning on her wall with his crossed ankles. He examined her clothes with curious eyes that traveled up her legs, her non-visitor friendly shorts, and her pasta-stained t-shirt, before finally landing on her uncombed hair. His mocking smile grew, and Draco closed the distance between them swiftly.

He hadn't tasted a drop of firewhiskey since she had left his flat, and yet the minute their distance shortened, her scent of roses muddled his senses. He inhaled sharply to clear his head, but it just worsened the effects.

He was _close._ For the second time within eight hours, Draco Malfoy stood a breath away, and she fought to control the tight ball of nerves in her stomach from clenching harder. When his fingers reached up to her cheek, her eyes followed his trail. But then his lips curled in a stupid, taunting, handsome grin, and he touched a strand of her hair, instead. Hermione _almost _reached for her wand at her hip to hex him, but waited, against her instincts, with bated breath. His grey eyes stormed far more from usual as he withdrew his hand, holding a rose petal between his fingers.

And then, time resumed. He stepped away from her and the door, lightly laughing to himself.

"The bush you call hair is sprouting flowers now, Granger," he said, shaking his head at her.

This was a new breed of Malfoy for Hermione. He wasn't the drunk razing his own apartment from earlier, nor the ill-intended bully from her school days. He wasn't even like Lucius - old and calculated and _evil. _No, this Malfoy was calm, arrogant, and an absolute git, but not hateful. At least the superiority still leaked from him, otherwise she wouldn't have recognized him at all.

Brushing away all distracting thoughts about the meddlesome pureblood, she arrived at the most plausible deduction with ease.

"Harry made you a Secret-Keeper?" she demanded, astonished.

"Two years ago, yes. I must say, you ought to keep up with the security details of your own home," Draco sneered.

As he said this, the wizard moved through the pale-yellow hallway and invited himself to the kitchen room. He pulled out a chair from the small dining table, eased into it, and pulled four files from his satchel. While Hermione stood bewildered by the door, a sinking feeling drenching her to the bones, Draco began laying out papers on her table - separating piles and appearing _very_ busy.

"What do you think you're doing, Malfoy?" she finally managed her protest.

"Fucking hell, Granger. You're much slower than usual today. Hogwarts, Salazar Slytherin, two escaped prisoners from Azkaban...any of this sound familiar to you?" he said. When she continued staring at him with scorn, he narrowed his eyes. "We would have started working on this hours ago if I didn't have to go looking for you, across the whole bloody U.K. - So now, if you're ready, darling, we should really get on with it."

Hermione noticed how he didn't say the Lestranges' name. She noticed how he called her darling - it was patronizing and sarcastic. Still, the word bounced off his tongue naturally, as though he called many girls that. She blinked once, then twice, shocked that Draco Malfoy would want to work at her place in the middle of the night.

"Why here? Why now? It's almost midnight."

"Where else?" he fired back. After a minute, she nodded hesitantly and pulled her own wooden stool.

He was surprisingly collected, but she began fidgeting almost immediately - picking at the parchment, drumming away on the underside of her stool, picking at her cuticles, and coiling strands of her hair on her fingers. She rarely struggled with keeping focus, and her inability to concentrate just added to her nervousness. When all else failed, she simply looked up from her pile of case files and stared at Draco. The clock on the wall behind him chimed to announce the midnight hour. Hermione chewed on the inside of her cheek in contemplation, but still, he didn't seem to notice her anxious behavior.

It was as if she had uttered her last thoughts out loud - within an instant, his deep voice cut through the thick air, while his eyes lingered on the papers.

"Have you always been one to stare, or did you pick that up from Scarhead and the Ginger?"

"Why did Harry make you a Secret-Keeper two years ago? And why hasn't he told me?" Hermione retorted, banishing away the childish insults.

Finally, his gaze lifted, and he eyed her for a short while. The incessant pulsing of the second hand gave proof of the room's audible silence. Clearing his throat, Draco shuffled a few pieces of parchments, searching for an easy distraction.

"It's moronic, you know. Warding your homes together."

"Answer the questions or get out," the witch warned as she folded her arms in defiance.

He mockingly laughed, flashing her a dark look and said, "It's literally a 'buy one get one free' deal on the Golden Trio if you ask me."

"Twelve Grimmauld Place is the safest place in all of the U.K., it has the best wards. Harry insisted we bind our homes together, so if one was ever attacked, the other would know," Hermione explained with a sigh. "Now, answer my question, Malfoy."

"It's not the safest, no. But yes, these wards are fairly ancient," replied Draco. He saw her face twitch with excitement. On any other day, he knew definitively that this witch would have talked for hours about family and blood wards. But at that moment, she remained silent and continued to glare at him. "You really don't give up, do you?" he conceded ultimately.

A triumphant smile itched to cross her lips, but she swallowed it so he could continue talking.

"Grimmauld Place has been the Black family home for many generations, as I'm sure, you are already aware." Draco pulled out a cigarette from a pack in his coat pocket that hung behind his chair. He placed it between his lips on the right and cocked his head to one side as if to ask, _do you mind?_

She shook her head no but still shot him a disapproving glance when he lighted it with his wand.

"Walburga Black always wanted a sister, even after the birth of her two younger brothers. When my grandfather, her youngest brother, married Druella, Walburga loved her sister-in-law even more than her own blood. Bellatrix had always been eccentric, so my mother inherited Walburga's love from her mother," he continued, taking a deep drag from the cigarette.

Draco conjured an ashtray and dusted off the excess remains. Drinking in the nicotine and smoke a few more times, Draco exhaled and said, "In the winter of 1980, without her sons or husband at home, when Walburga fell ill and became lonesome, she and my mother kept constant correspondence. My paternal grandparents were cold to her from the very beginning, so five months into her pregnancy, my mother moved to Grimmauld Place to stay with Walburga for a few months."

Hermione's eyes stung from the light blanket of smoke, but she fought through the irritation to listen to his words. Underneath his explanation, another emotion simmered that she couldn't quite recognize. Whatever he felt, it had clearly affected Malfoy enough to push him into developing a vice.

His eyes had drifted afar, and his voice had lost its tense quality so that it sounded soft and vulnerable. "I don't think it was planned. My mother was supposed to move back to the Manor during her last month. But she delivered at the Black Home instead - Walburga and Kreacher assisted her," said Draco.

When Hermione's expression didn't change, the edge to his voice returned, yet he managed to sound bored. "I was born next door, Granger."

She tried to imagine a baby with his striking grey eyes and his pale white hair. What would it be like to know a younger Malfoy, untainted by the War and its scars? She imagined him running around the Black home, and Malfoy Manor, his squeals echoing about the high ceilings. Again, the knot in her stomach twisted, and this time, she felt as if her ribcage had tightened measurably. From under her curled lashes, she tentatively studied the man in front of her.

Ashamed, for he repeatedly scratched his left forearm where she knew he hid his mark.

Tired, for every time he blinked, they fluttered open with _so much _effort.

Pained, for he took a drag from his cigarette every time he said, "my mother."

Uncaring, for the bandage she had wrapped around his palm, was coming undone, crusted with dried blood.

Hermione thought to reach for his hand to fix it, but she banished the notion away at once.

"It still doesn't explain why you're a Secret-Keeper, Malfoy," she objected instead.

Draco looked at her with a blank expression. While he was grateful that she hadn't reacted dramatically and that the information he had shared with her had not affected her much, he still detested her prying, interrogative questions. Bringing the cigarette to his lips, the Auror fixated his gaze just above her nest of hair to avoid the enemy's most dangerous weapon: her _fucking_ eyes. Their depths swirled with warmth and compassion, even behind her hard mask of indifference. They were melted caramel, and sweet honey painted with a hint of mahogany - darker and more inviting than even the kohl that lined her lower lid. Draco blinked thrice, rapidly, to drive away the thoughts.

"Potter made me one so that I could visit Walburga's painting once a year. She's foul, that woman. Yet, the only time she recounts fond memories, they are of my mother," Draco remarked. "Every time, she tells me things about her that I never knew before. In those moments, I feel closer to my mother, sometimes more than when she was still alive."

Hermione merely nodded, noting his apparent discomfort.

"After Fred died, Ron had his painting made within a few months. When they asked him where he wanted to be placed - everyone thought he would say someplace in the Burrow. But Fred asked to be placed in the Gryffindor Common Room. McGonagall has granted all the Weasleys access to visit whenever they like. Sometimes Ginny goes, most times it's Ron. But never George or Molly. They can't bear it," expressed Hermione. "I think Fred knows, and that's why he chose to be placed away from them so they wouldn't mourn him every time they saw him," she added.

"But they mourn him anyways, don't they?" inquired Draco.

"Yes," she replied, her eyes sinking again. "Even on the good days."

"How do muggles do it, Granger? Without moving pictures or talking paintings? How do they keep their dead alive?" he wondered, genuinely curious.

"I don't know," she answered. Hermione smiled with sadness and pushed the piece of parchment in front of her to his side that read 'Prime Suspects: Salazar Slytherin, under Oath and Instructions of Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange.'

"One thing is certain, though - while we may have our ways of keeping our dead alive, our dead also have their ways of haunting us," she said.

Draco eyed the piece of paper and snorted in understanding. He smothered his cigarette butt through the parchment, burning a hole through the top corner.

"You want to hunt them down for what they did to your mother, I can understand," she asserted. "But we have to do this the right way, Malfoy."

He continued glaring at the spot above her head, refusing to meet her gaze or talk about his drunken rage that morning.

"We can pretend like this morning never happened, but only on one condition," the witch suggested.

He glimpsed at her briefly, considering her words. _Two can play, witch._

"Only if you give me your word that you'll talk to Nott or Penelope or someone sane, the next time you get the urge to go on a murderous rampage," concluded Hermione.

"I hardly think bringing a pregnant woman into the mix will help anyone," Draco argued.

"Fine, then, you still have Theo," she offered.

"Yes, but if I tried hard enough, I could convince Theo to join my cause," he persisted.

"You can tell me if you like."

Draco scoffed. "You're not someone sane, Granger."

"Just find someone, okay?" she groaned. "Find someone to talk you down, to feed you reason and better judgment during those times. I don't care who it is."

"Your door is open, though, yes?" He taunted; his voice laced with mirth again.

"It won't be for long if you keep this up, Malfoy," she warned.

"Thanks," said Draco, avoiding her eyes again. "And I apologize. For this morning, I mean."

* * *

Unlike her study sessions with Ron back at Hogwarts (during which she usually completed both of their homework, while he slept, ate or read Quidditch books), or her time spent researching policies with Harry at the Ministry (which consisted of long silences and occasional blips of conversations), the three hours that she spent with Draco discussing the case, whisked by as they became deeply engrossed in their discourse. Three times Draco wandered down a slippery path of 'what ifs,' but Hermione pulled him back with a series of facts that entirely debunked his theory. And four times he chuckled in her face when she suggested a lead, before redirecting her to different files that proved her finds irrelevant.

They weren't corrosive, though. Hermione prepared structured notes with testimonies from the Hogwarts paintings, the Sorting Hat, and the voice itself. Draco supplied her with the details that she missed, and she, in turn, helped him weed through the list of past Death Eaters who could have helped the Lestranges. When she found him flipping through the papers, searching for the names of the guards on duty at Azkaban, she pulled it from her neat pile and laid it in front of him. He appeared disgruntled yet sighed with relief.

At a quarter to four in the morning, he finally stood and stretched. Hermione didn't dare to look up.

"So, it's decided then? I'll visit the Hogwarts library to find more texts on the Founders. You'll search the Ministry shelves?" he said as he stuffed his satchel with parchment.

Hermione practically growled under her breath. _So, he was going to start this argument. Again._

"I know exactly which books and where to find them at Hogwarts, Malfoy. I'll be much more efficient!" she exasperated.

"Are you daft, woman?" He responded with equal frustration. "Listen, I understand that your whole life you have been surviving one suicide mission after another with Potter and Weasley, but we are not doing that shit."

She stood to counter him, but Draco's height overshadowed her petite frame. Still, she squared her shoulders and planted her feet with adamance.

"Don't go soft on me now. Are you an Auror or not? Yes, there is a risk, but like you said, I've survived every risky endeavor in the past! Plus, this is the Hogwarts library, Malfoy, I hardly think that room, in the entire castle, would-"

"Choose your next words wisely, witch. Those could be Hermione Granger's famous - or rather, foolish - last words. Also, you're right as always, I _am_ an Auror and leading my first _bloody _case, so please, do not let your world-saving, war heroine self die on my watch," said Draco, pushing his blond strands back in irritation.

"Or else, what? You'll run and tell your father?" she grunted out impulsively.

The color emptied from his face, taking any leftover mirth with it so that he looked ghastly at best. Hermione bit her tongue but didn't let her face fall.

"Stay away from the school. Do you understand?" he warned, and with a crack of apparition, he was gone.

* * *

**13 Grimmauld Place (Hermione Granger's Home). Twelve Days Remaining.**

She picked out her white canvas shoes from the closet to match her pastel purple cotton dress. Tying the laces on either side, she pulled up her hair in a haphazard bun, but even the spells that Ginny had taught her couldn't fix the escaping strands that cascaded down her neck and framed her face. She sighed in defeat and pushed her arms through a grey cardigan before apparating to the Ministry. Hermione worked in her office until five that evening, drinking three cups of coffee to make up for her lack of sleep from the night prior. At five-thirty, an owl came swooping in through her window, sending the papers on her desk flying. She opened the letter and silently appraised the writer's cursive.

_Granger,_

_Couldn't stop by Hogwarts today. Potter, Nott, and I found leads on the brothers, instead. Will visit the school tomorrow._

_D.M._

She groaned to herself and rested her head on the desk. With closed eyes, she could imagine exactly where the needed books were kept at the school's library. Yet, this ineffective git wouldn't let her go, out of sheer cowardice.

_Fuck it, _she decided, bolting out of her chair and readying her bag. As she ran out of her office, her leather bag bounced on her back. She hurried down to the elevators, waved goodbye to Arthur, and slammed directly into Harry's back.

The Auror turned around with a stern expression that quickly melted off and softened at the sight of his best friend.

"I was just coming up to see you, actually," he said.

"Oh," replied Hermione, her eyes darting back to the elevators.

"You're busy? We'll just talk later at the Notts' then, it's alright," Harry suggested, noting her preoccupied state.

"Later at the Notts'?" she asked, confused yet inching towards the exit.

"Yeah, didn't Malfoy tell you?" questioned Harry, smiling, yet appearing equally confused. When she shook her head 'no,' he muttered to himself instead. "Funny, I swear I told him to include that when he was writing you that letter."

"We're meeting at the Notts' then?" she asked again, taking another step away.

"For dinner, at about seven," he added.

"I'll meet you there, Harry!" she said, turning around and rushing towards the lift.

"Do you need any help, Hermione?" the wizard worried loudly so that she could hear despite their distance. Something was brewing inside her head - that much Harry knew undoubtedly.

"Nope, I just need to visit a library on the north side," she half-yelled as the lift doors closed. "We'll talk soon!"

Her voice trailed off in the distance as the Ministry lift disappeared.

* * *

**Hogwarts Library. Twelve Days Remaining.**

"Alohomora," whispered Hermione. The library opened, and she smiled despite her nerves as the smell of books greeted her once again.

She closed her eyes and pictured the day when her parents' memories had first returned. That day, in the backroom of the memory consultant's office in wizarding London, her mum had looked at her with a hint of recognition and enveloped her in a loving embrace, mumbling her name again and again. She thought of her father's weathered hands - dried from over washing and over-sanitizing - that had cupped her face and kissed her forehead after three long years. Even in her memory, as all three of them wept with such grief and joy, there was no confusion at all. Sucking in a breath, she cast her spell, "_Expecto Patronum."_

The otter bounded across the entrance and left a trail of its blue aura around her. She greeted her Patronus with a grin, feeling her nerves unwind. "If anything happens here, alert Harry Potter at once with this message: I'm in the Hogwarts library, come at once, bring help."

She turned around to face the books and entered the first row with a fearful frown and excitement thrumming inside the pads of fingers.

Nothing happened for almost an hour. By then, she had collected about eighteen books, all with relevant information, and all of them she had located, solely from memory. Stretching to her tallest height by balancing on her toes, she moved her nineteenth selection closer to the shelves' edge as it sat propped up, a few inches above her reach. Hermione contemplated reaching for her wand, which lay on the ground with the rest of her findings, but the leather binding seemed just _so_ close. She jumped, her fingers tilted the dense text towards her, but when it fell from its height, she missed catching the massive publication by a breath.

The resulting _thud_ seemed to awaken the castle. It was a small noise, irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, but the air around her lifted and chilled considerably. Immediately, Hermione reached for her wand and maximized her _Lumos. _She picked up her belongings - her bag and the books - and advanced towards the library entrance. Behind her, she could hear the shelves as they began to rattle, and she sped away from the sound, not daring a glance at the noise. One of her books slipped from her grasp and landed between her feet, compromising her coordination while she sprinted towards the exit. As she tumbled to her knees, the rattling flourished around her.

Hermione turned on her back, cast three consecutive Shield Charms, which deflected several flying books that were aiming for her. The library's destruction looked monumental behind her in its ransacked condition. In the back rows, she could see all the books falling in the small space between the racks. The texts began dropping aggressively from their high positions, some as heavy as her. It was as if someone had used a time turner to drop her back in the Department of Mysteries during her fifth year as the prophecies collapsed around her and her friends. Except for this time, she was fated to suffer alone, and though no glass orbs crashed into her, the hurling books were far more intimidating. Around her, pages flew out of their bindings and began cutting at her skin, slicing her with thin marks all over her legs and arms. She couldn't hear the Shield Charm that she croaked out, amidst all the ruffling.

Turning on her knees and elbows, Hermione began her crawl towards the exit again, but more pages began clawing at her skin than ever before - reaching for her face, even though she tried to swat them away. Tasting her own blood as it trickled from her cheek and her forehead to her lips, she spat the metallic saliva out of her mouth. She felt the first book fall on her calf, and the witch stifled her yelp. Then another fell right in the middle of her spine and slipped to the side. This time, her groan was audible above the pages' noise. Blood from her knees left a trail on the carpet and stained all the parchment upon which she moved.

The corner of a textbook drove into her head and tumbled down in front of her. Her vision blurred, just as it had, only the other day in the Chamber. She spat blood again, strengthening her resolve as she finally saw the light from the ajar door in front of her. She stood a chance, she could make it, if she moved fast enough.

But the racks beside her shook with rage, the wood shrieking tortuously. She peered up from her crouched position and covered her eyes with her hands, on instinct, as the shelves and the remaining books atop barreled towards the ground and crumbled upon her.

* * *

**The Nott House. Twelve Days Remaining.**

"I personally invited her, and she said she would come," insisted Harry, checking the wall clock for the seventh time in the last twenty minutes.

"She'll be here, mate. Relax. If 'Mione's late, she's probably got a good reason," Ron assured, stuffing another dumpling in his mouth as Penelope served him three more.

"'Ank you," said the redhead.

"How's your head, Weasley?" said Theo, raising his chin towards Ron's bandaged head.

"Oh, mostly healed, ya know? These dumplings are surely helping," he answered, beaming at Penny gleefully.

"Ron's only had three brain cells since birth, and now he's down to two," sniggered Ginny, patting her brother's injured head, as she took a seat next to Penny on the ottoman.

"Still got one more than you, Gin," retorted Ron, drawing giggles from all, except Harry and Draco.

The pureblood surveyed Potter (who was peeking at the clock once more with dreadful concern) and rolled his eyes. _Trust the Golden Gryffindors to invite each other without fail. _He had explicitly excluded Hermione after the previous night's squabble. The witch had torched parts of him ablaze. Still, while he unquestionably wanted to hex her, Draco was also sure that he would _Avada_ anyone who tried to douse those flames. As Theo poured more tonic in his drink, Draco wondered what could have occupied Granger enough to miss this dinner. She had been more enthusiastic about this case than him, and yet, she wasn't present here for the updates. Weasley was, unfortunately (and rarely) right. Granger was obviously doing something that she valued far more than a few case updates over dinner. In fact, he trusted her to be the one to arrive after they had all shared their findings with enough proof to overshadow all their leads combined.

Draco's own mind mocked him for a few seconds. He was missing something - the obvious chess move, a Queen's Gambit staring him right in the eye, and yet he felt like the vulnerable pawn. The easiest piece of the puzzle was eluding him. He glanced at Penny and the Weaslette as the women chuckled at one of Theo's jokes. Draco caught Weasley petting Nox before the redhead nodded at Potter sympathetically as if to say, 'everything's okay.'

But when he looked at Potter, the pieces finally fucking pulled together. Harry Potter, the Golden Boy, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived had the best instincts of them all. And here was the man, right in front of Draco's eyes - clenching and unclenching his glass of gin as his dinner grew cold on his plate far away. His wary glances towards the clock increased as time passed, and he kept checking the fireplace consistently.

"Where did you say Granger was, Potter?" Draco asked. The laughter faltered around them.

"She said she would come at seven-"

"Yes, but where did she say she was?" he repeated.

"Some library on the northside. That's all she said," provided Harry, his concern spiking.

But Draco was already on his feet. Setting his drink down, he _Accio'_d his wand and his coat.

"Sweet Salazar," mumbled Draco, "this stupid woman cannot understand simple fucking words, brightest witch of her age, my arse." He lowered the anti-apparition wards inside Nott's home. Everyone regarded him with stunned expressions as he grabbed a fistful of his hair and cursed in frustration, pacing the floor.

"Weasley, check the Ministry library. Weaslette, check her home," he barked. "Penny, stay here. If she comes, alert everyone. Theo, you and Potter, are coming with me."

"What's happened, Malfoy?" prodded Ginny, voicing everyone's thoughts at the moment.

"Granger's happened," Draco hissed. Inhaling deeply, he said, "I think she's gone to Hogwarts library on her own. We had decided that I would go, but I didn't get a chance to stop there since I was with Potter and Nott all day. She must have taken it on herself, knowing that self-righteous swot."

As if on cue, Hermione's otter leapt into the room, engulfing the whole room with its blue light. Her voice and her message sent everyone's hearts plunging towards the ground - but no one's dropped as sharply and unexpectedly as Draco's. The emptiness surprised him too.

* * *

**That's all for now darlings.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Early Update, Wooohooo!**

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**Love,**

**Kore. **

* * *

**Chapter Five: Visions of the End**

Hermione opened her eyes to a clear sky. No floating clouds above, just birds chirping in the far-off distance. When she sat up, her body didn't ache, or groan and her skin had lost all its scars - the fresh ones from the library attack and even the scar tissue from the War. Beneath her, the green grass was heavy with due, so she sprang up, pushing off with the palms of her hands.

Ten meters ahead, an elderly couple sat on a blanket. The woman had striking white hair, reaching till her waist, and almost touching the ground. Parts of her white locks were tied in braids and clipped - but most of it waterfalled from her shoulders in splendid curls. With her back to Hermione, the woman let out a wholesome laugh, even snorting a few times. The woman looked at the man sitting perpendicular to her and facing Hermione. He kept saying something, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and the woman kept laughing uncontrollably.

Hermione observed how the elderly man worked tirelessly to pull laughter from the woman. Every time her chuckles lessened; he used his charms again to entice her glee. And every time she spilled her giggles, a spark rejuvenated his eyes. If she didn't know any better, it seemed as if they were _flirting. _

Before she could approach the couple, a little boy ran past Hermione and practically threw himself in the elderly man's arms. The woman giggled again, throwing her head back - her curls danced along. The boy whispered something in the man's ear, before thrusting a bouquet of hand-picked dandelions in the man's lap.

Hermione inched closer. She could hear their voices distantly now. As the distance shortened and her vision sharpened, their features became more apparent.

The old man and the boy shared one distinct trait - both possessed the most intense grey eyes that immediately made her think of Malfoy. But the man, though aged, appeared far more youthful than Draco. Even the greys of his eyes seemed lighter, almost clear and glass-like. He picked up the bouquet and offered it to the woman who ruffled the little boy's striking red hair.

"Nan!" The boy bellowed, fixing his hair, as he placed a kiss on the woman's cheek. The woman still didn't turn her face.

A pinch on her arm pulled Hermione's attention back. When she looked down at herself, she found scars forming on her skin once more, blood leaking from them slowly. Her strides grew more urgent as she moved closer to the family.

From behind her, someone yelled, "Leo!"

The boy continued playing with a few stones, oblivious. The couple peered at him with admiration.

As soon as she turned, Hermione thanked Merlin to the moon and back. Ginny Weasley was rushing towards her, wearing one of Molly's most stern expressions. But her eyes didn't meet Hermione's with recognition. Instead, she marched past her best friend and stormed on towards the toddler.

"Leonardo Arthur Malfoy! I swear on Helga's grave, if you don't apologize to your sister at once, you're spending the whole day inside!" Ginny demanded, her back facing Hermione now.

"But mum! Sh-she was taking my fwowers!"

"Oh, don't worry, Lillibet," the white-haired older woman said, taking the toddler in her lap. "Just send Lyra down, we'll fix this right away. Won't we, Leo?"

"Where are they all, anyway?" questioned the man.

"Scorp should be coming any minute now," answered Ginny, keeping her glare on the toddler who was hiding now.

"Oh, don't fret, Potter," the older man said, waving a hand to brush away the daggers she was shooting at the boy. "We'll make it up to Lyra, yes, son?"

"Yes, sir," the little boy squealed out, taking the flowers from his Nan's offering hand and rushing past Hermione again, screaming at the top of his lungs, "WONNY!"

When Hermione turned around again, she noticed that her legs were bleeding too. Blood trailed past her knees and shins and ankles and drenched her white, canvas shoes. The pain subsided when she practically ran into Ron Weasley. There was a slight limp in Ron's walk, and his signature red hair was gone, replaced by greying strands. But his blue eyes glistened in a familiar way and his wrinkled lopsided smile still warmed Hermione's heart.

"Ron!" she gasped out loud.

He, too, however, trudged past her, holding a young girl on his hip, as the little boy ran up to his leg. The little girl didn't look older than a year, with a head full of curly Malfoy-blond hair and bottle-green eyes. _Harry's eyes. _Her cheeks were lined with dried tears but even distressed, the girl was breathtakingly beautiful.

"You, mister, heard you broke my little girl's heart. These better be for her!" said Ron, eyeing the dandelions in the boy's hand.

The boy nodded and offered the flowers to his sister. A beaming smile broke out on her face as she giggled; her tears were forgotten.

Hermione tore away her eyes from the exchange, her head spinning a little, and she turned her back on them. Upon the hill in front of her, more people were walking down towards the group.

But two strangers caught her eye instantly. A man walked behind everyone else, tall, handsome and broad-shouldered. From the distance they shared, he looked unmistakably like Draco - he had the same sharp jaw, platinum blond hair, lean built. Despite the fact that he was carrying two picnic baskets and a couple of broomsticks under his arms, he sauntered down with more grace than everyone else - save for the woman in the very front.

She was a vision. Her hair, though appeared combed, lifted with the same frizz as Hermione's. She hid the same mischievous spark in her chocolate eyes as the older man on the picnic blanket. Her innocent smile colored Hermione's whole world.

The witch felt her heart clench and when she drew her next breaths, they barely slipped into her lungs.

"Help!" muttered Hermione, looking with panic-stricken eyes at the happy, beautiful people. _Her people, and yet strangers. _No one answered. No one even turned to look at her.

The woman in front danced past her, barefoot, hand-in-hand with another older woman who had silvery grey hair. Both appeared dreamy, almost lost, giggling at their own jokes. As they approached the group, Ron greeted the older woman with a kiss and gently tugged at her waist as she peered up at him with bright blue eyes.

The children ran to the younger woman, the barefoot one with Hermione's eyes and hair, and pulled her to the ground as they jumped on her with glee. The baby cooed as her brother plopped himself in the woman's lap.

"Rosie, I gaved Nan and Lyra fwowers!" the little boy said with pride.

"Leo," smiled Ginny, melting at the child's innocence, "it's Auntie Rosie, remember?"

"Oi, Potter!" the woman named Rosie retorted, beaming up at the boy's mother, "don't make me any older! Rose is just fine, Leo," she said to the boy kindly.

After a moment's pause, Rose said, "Where are _my_ flowers?"

The boy's face fell but lifted immediately when Rose suggested that they race to the nearest patch of dandelions. As they zoomed off, with the child's squeals echoing across the mountains, the rest of the group descended.

Ginny moved to the man Hermione had mistaken for Draco and placed a sweet kiss on his cheek as he finally reached the crowd.

"Leo's never getting disciplined with you Malfoys," she chided halfheartedly, laughing as the man pulled her closer to place a firm kiss on her lips.

"It all comes with the charm, Potter," he offered, smiling into the kiss.

"Hey!" she rebuked, her eyes growing wide as his hands wandered slightly further down than it was appropriate in public. "My name," she mocked back, punching his chest without any force, "is Malfoy, too! It's been Malfoy for the last three years, you absolute git!" she chortled.

"Not with that hair!" said Ron, teasing the elderly man on the picnic blanket more than anyone else. "With that hair, you're not a Potter or a Malfoy."

"Yes, yes, Weasley, do enjoy your moment," said the man, taunting back with his clean grey eyes. "Tell me, old man, is it your life's greatest accomplishment to have seen a Malfoy heir with Weasley hair?"

The older woman beside the man smacked his arm, scolding, yet, she never turned around.

"No, not that," Ron fired back, his eyes shining with jest as he glimpsed at Leo's crimson curls. "It's seeing a Malfoy heir marry into the Longbottom name!"

The woman named Rose, who had returned from her race with the toddler, turned to Ron and huffed. "You're not helping, Ronnie!"

"Let's see the ring, Rosie," came another voice. Hermione turned around to see another elderly couple join them and again her breath hitched.

The man's striking green eyes, the trademark scar on his wrinkled forehead and messy salt-and-pepper hair caused Hermione's eyes to sting with tears. He was using a cane on one side and was supported on the other side by a beautiful elderly woman. She looked much younger than him, her skin was tighter, her hair still colored. But her eyes spoke of her age - radiant yet _tired. _Ginny.

The woman who Hermione had previously thought to be Ginny, the younger version of her best friend, jogged to Harry's other side and looped her arm through his, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek. "It's good to see you, Dad," she said.

Even Ron's gleeful air slipped a little. But he managed a pleasant nod towards them. The woman at his side moved to Rose and held her ring finger in her hand.

"It's the Stone of Dittany," the woman concluded after studying the ring.

"Yes, Auntie Luna," Rose beamed. "Frank said it's healing powers are concentrated from the root. And it's green, per the Malfoy crest."

"It's lovely, isn't it?" A voice came from beside Hermione.

Her breath stopped when she looked at the woman in front of her.

"All of us together like this," the woman remarked, raising her chin towards the group.

An audible gasp left Hermione and she didn't process any of the woman's words. Her eyes hadn't left the woman's face - weathered, wrinkled, but, still, content. Brown eyes stared at brown. When Hermione noticed her waist-length curly white hair, she realized this was the woman laughing with the elderly man on the picnic blanket earlier, with her back to the group - the same one who the little boy had called _Nan_.

Hermione's throat seized.

To confirm her assumption, she let her eyes wander down the woman's white cotton dress and to her left arm. There, especially against the woman's old and thin skin, a scar jumped up clear as day - _Mudblood. _

Hermione sucked in the air yet found no escape. Another gasp left her. When her eyes traveled up to meet the woman's again, she just stared back, unsurprised.

"You found where you belong," said the woman, smiling.

Pointing at Rose, she explained, "That's Rose Narcissa Malfoy, your youngest. Frank Longbottom, Neville and Hanah's boy, proposed last week."

Her gaze moved to the younger version of Ginny and the elderly woman nudged Hermione towards her and the handsome man. "She's Ginny's spitting image, isn't she? Lily Potter, our sweet Lillibet, now a Malfoy, married to your firstborn."

Hermione gulped, pulling in more dry air against her already parched throat as they both watched the happy couple.

"Scorpius Theodore Malfoy," said the woman, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. "He's a true Malfoy, that one. But with your brains, of course," the witch chuckled.

The toddler ran past them, rushing to his sister with more dandelions. "Their children, Leo and Lyra are over there," the older witch beamed with pride.

"And that's Harry and Ron?" Hermione croaked out. Her own voice felt alien and new. The older woman followed her gaze as she watched the two elderly wizards conversing with serious expressions.

"Yes," admitted the witch, her tone falling. "Harry had a heart attack two weeks ago; he's been considerably weaker. This is his first outing since," she solemnly remarked.

The tears brimming on Hermione's lower lids finally spilled over without much grace.

"Are you married?" Hermione asked the lady, still watching her two best friends. Her stomach ached worse than when Dolohov had attacked her during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries.

"Well, yes, of course, I thought I made that much fairly obvious, no?" the woman quipped.

"And you're happy?"

"Peace is far more valuable than happiness, I suppose. I'm lucky to have found both," answered the elderly witch, watching the grey-eyed man on the picnic blanket with an expression Hermione couldn't quite name. He studied the woman back, forgetting everyone else, as a smile played on his lips.

Hermione turned to the familiar witch and nodded at her through the silent tears, feeling as if she was intruding on their private exchange.

"And you're me, then? My future version?" She cried out, her throat closing in, her blood flowing freely now. She tasted metal at the back of her throat. Hermione felt the weight of the world pressing into her sternum. The pain blinded her peripheral vision.

"One of them, yes," confirmed the witch. "One you won't get to have unless you wake up."

"Tell me how!" Hermione demanded, "How do I wake up?"

She watched as her blood trickled into the earth.

"Listen to him, Hermione. Fight him, challenge him, drive him to his wits' end your entire life if that's what you want, but at this moment, right now, just focus on his voice, and listen," the aged woman implored, grasping her shoulder firmly and shaking her.

"Who?" exasperated the younger witch as the pain surged in acuity. The woman had let her go but she still rattled, as if an invisible force was shaking her.

Emerging from the far-away group, the older man from the picnic blanket approached the elderly witch. "Talking to yourself again, Granger?" he teased.

"What's his name?" Hermione questioned, raising her chin towards him but refusing to look at the man's grey eyes, as he moved closer. She searched her own brown ones instead, glaring at the woman in front of her urgently, already understanding the answer to her question.

"_Rejuvenate!_"

A spark jolted through her, though no one around her had their wand out or had cast a spell.

Again she shook without reason.

"Damn it, Granger, wake up!" someone shouted.

She blinked once and suddenly dark clouds rolled over the hills. The people kept laughing and playing as if nothing had changed.

"You need to wake up, Hermione," said the older woman sternly. But halfway through her sentence, her speech transformed, so that her name came out muddled - sounding distant and as if her voice belonged to a man.

"Hermione?" The man's voice said again. This time, she felt warmth creep up her cheeks.

She blinked again and her whole family was gone behind the woman. It was only her and her future self, standing closer than ever, yet not touching.

"Fuck it. Potter, grab her on the other side, we'll apparate to St. Mungos," a voice yelled.

Hermione felt her bile rise into her mouth, but when she coughed, dark maroon liquid spurted out.

She blinked again, falling to her knees on the grass, looking up at her old self, blood dripping from her chin as the thunder boasted around them.

She blinked again. But this time her eyes refused to reopen. In the blindness, she felt her body sway and fall to one side.

And then the inescapable ringing began as she lost consciousness.

* * *

**Hogwarts Library. Twelve Days Remaining.**

"She's in no condition to apparate, Draco," said Theo, pulling the rest of the wooden planks away from her legs.

"I don't care, it's the only way," Draco gritted. Regarding the Auror by the door with disbelief, he bellowed, "Potter!"

Harry stood frozen on spot, staring blankly at Hermione's limp form. Around the three men, the library lay crumbled to the ground, utterly unrecognizable. Ages worth of history destroyed in an instant and amidst the mess, his best friend rested, covered with debris and looking _dead._

Realizing that he was being of no help, the wizard lunged forward to the witch's side and tucked a stray strand of her rubble-ridden hair behind her ear.

"'Mione?" Harry whispered softly. No one moved as her eyelashes fluttered. Her first word sounded like a groan until she repeated it more clearly.

"Malfoy..." she uttered.

Without even realizing it, Draco pushed Harry's hand out of the way and grasped her face with strong hands on either side.

"I'm right here, Granger," he said in a frenzy. "Just stay with us, okay?"

Keeping his own gaze on Hermione, he rocked back and forth slightly, praying to Merlin and Salazar and even Dumbledore. Funny how fate teased him constantly - he had worked so hard to avoid her looks just yesterday when she was peering at him every other moment. And now, he was yearning for her melted brown depths more than he had ever yearned for anything else when the one thing she couldn't do was open her _fucking_ eyes.

"Theo, secure the grounds for now and then go to Healer Gwerps' home - bring her to St. Mungos at once," Draco commanded. "We'll apparate there as soon as she's stable enough."

Nott left the library more concerned for his friend than the bloodied witch. He hoped that Granger would make a recovery from her physical wounds but noting his mate's emotional state, Theo was sure that there was a storm brewing in Draco's mind that would definitely rob the blond of his sanity - whatever was left of it, anyway.

"Malfoy?" Hermione mumbled again. When she lifted her heavy lids, the Lumos from someone's wand stung her eyes.

"Hey," the wizard exhaled with relief, quite astonished that his name was tumbling out from the witch's lips every few seconds.

"I listened," said the brunette, as a tear escaped her tired eyes and fell straight into his hands that cupped her face. "I listened to you."

He watched her with a confused expression. Her brown eyes seemed years older than when he had last looked at her - as if she had lived through a whole lifetime and returned with her heart full.

"This is what you call listening, witch?" chuckled Draco, with a look of surprise, wiping away her stray tears with his lean fingers. "You're fucking crazy, Granger. Absolutely mental," he added.

"Are you hurting anywhere, Hermione?" asked Harry.

Draco turned his face to the bespectacled man and scowled. _Was the woman just crushed by a wholearse library hurting anywhere? _

"No, Harry, I'm okay, actually," she replied instead. Suddenly, Draco was facing her again, worry creasing his forehead.

"You don't feel any pain, anywhere?" he inquired, surveying her soft features with uncertainty.

"Not really," said the witch, trying her best to shrug her shoulders.

"Her body's in shock," Harry asserted. Looking at Draco, he said, "I'll apparate to St. Mungos. They have portkeys from the War that we can use. It'll be safer."

Draco nodded while checking the rest of her body for any evident injuries.

"Malfoy?" demanded Harry, "Stay with her, yeah?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, Potter?" spat the blond, continuing his inspection. A second later, Harry was gone with a crack.

"If things were different, I'd tell you to get your bloody paws off of me, Malfoy," Hermione breathed out, trying to erase the concern that was etched on his face.

"Hmm, if things were different, I'd tell you I'm not interested," replied Draco, finding a bleeder on her stomach where a large wooden shard had splintered through her skin.

"So, you _are_ interested, then?" she countered, managing a small smile. He cursed internally at her insinuation. How could he have been so bloody daft - getting into a verbal joust with the Queen of all Academia, herself, expecting to win?

Blood trickled out from the puncture wound at an alarming speed. He needed to remove the piece fast to hold pressure. Draco secured a hold on her neck from the back and positioned her closer, against him until they shared the crisp August air. After her sight, his warmth on her skin returned her sense of touch. She peered into his dark, storming orbs and thought of the older Malfoy in her dream - how clear his eyes had been, crystal-like and peaceful.

"This is going to hurt, Granger," he warned, wrapping his fingers around the shard tightly.

"What is? You being interested in me?" she responded, missing the distressed look that marred his face as he struggled to conceal his true emotions.

"Something like that," murmured Draco, chuckling to himself darkly and pulling forcefully at the piece of wood.

Hermione inhaled sharply as the pain engulfed her whole body, and also because his breathtaking grin made her ache in a way that she knew was far more damaging than any of her current injuries. She reached for his arms that held her and dug into his shirt to keep from screaming as all her nerves burned. Draco pressed the palm of his left hand into her flesh as her blood pulsed against his skin for a few seconds. Although he felt the flow lessen, it never completely ceased. It was everywhere - soaking through her clothes and soaking through his. He almost laughed out loud mirthlessly when he saw that her blood was trailing down his arm in several carmine streams, flowing over his Dark Mark.

_Oh, the irony of it all. _

"I'm sorry," he professed stiffly as she collapsed snugly into his arms, losing the rest of her fleeting strength. At that moment, Draco told himself that he would have held any suffering stranger this way. But when she rested her head on his shoulder, staining another patch on his shirt red, he knew that he was battling to deceive himself.

With every breath, Hermione inhaled more and more of the analgesic that was soothing her nerves. At first, she thought it was her own imagination, working overtime to help her cope with the sharp aching everywhere. As she leaned into him, his masculine scent of cedar, whiskey, and mint flooded her senses and stole away more of her agony. She found herself burying her nose deep in his shirt until her world whirled from his high.

"I think I owe you a new shirt," she mumbled, trying to keep her eyes from closing.

He scoffed against her ear and Hermione knew that he was smirking at her, too.

Finally, he said, "I think you owe me a lot more than that."

That's how Harry found them - Hermione clinging to Draco, drawing in sharp breaths as the blond wizard kept his one hand securely on her stomach, and the other lost in her wild hair as he held her head.

"The Portkey," announced Harry, lifting up the small pin with the hospital's emblem of a crossed bone and wand engraved in the center. He served Draco a deeply skeptical look as the three of them touched the pin and Harry said, "_Portus!"_

* * *

**St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Twelve Days Remaining.**

The witch was whisked away from Draco, the second their feet balanced on the hospital's clean marble floor. As the Healers, and trainees and the assistants swarmed around Hermione, no one even spared Harry Potter a second glance. Except for Helena Gwerps, who came hurtling towards the two men, with Theo jogging behind her, trying to keep up.

"Harry Potter! Finally, an _actual_ Auror!" shrieked the woman. She shot Theo a sour look before she turned her wild eyes to Harry again. "Arrest him, Mr. Potter! Arrest him in front of my eyes, I want to see it done!" she yelled, pointing at the guilty-looking Nott.

"Well, the thing-" Harry began.

"No, no, no, I won't hear a word of it, mind you! This man-" the woman screeched again, shoving her finger dangerously close to Theo's face. Her voice dropped several octaves and she whispered, "_this Death-Eater scum! - _kidnapped me in front of my family at dinner and has not listened to reason ever since!"

Both Slytherin men shared a look, half-amused. The woman's jab was boring at best, but still, it had its effect. Harry kept turning his head to catch a glimpse of his best friend as they lifted her onto a gurney and wheeled her away to the Artefact Accidents Ward on the ground floor.

"Are you listening TO ME?" Nearing hysteria, Helena howled.

"Yes, I called you here, actually," said Harry distractedly, throwing glances at the door past which they took Hermione.

"You? You, Harry Potter, working alongside-"

"Healer Gwerps!" snapped Harry. "_I_ sent Nott - a perfectly capable Auror - to _escort_ _you _to the hospital so you can help our friend," he finished in a breath.

Harry shot Malfoy an apologetic look before adding, "Hermione Granger, ma'am, she's hurt. So please, if you could tend to her right now, I'll address all your grievances as soon as this is over."

* * *

Ginny and Ron arrived within twenty minutes and sat with Theo and Harry outside of the general ward on steel benches that left their backs sore. Penelope arrived with a basket full of their dinner's leftovers within an hour, complaining about the quality of St. Mungo's cafeteria.

Peering at the pregnant woman skeptically, Harry turned to Theo and muttered, "You know, I never would have imagined you with her, Nott."

"Me neither," remarked the Slytherin, eyeing his wife with delight.

"Hermione used her name as an alias during the War," said Harry.

"Oh, we _know_. Penny's quite proud of that, believe it or not. She always says, 'I helped save Hermione Granger,' as if it's her greatest feat in life," Theo replied, snickering.

"But it _is_ my greatest feat!" objected Penny. Visitors and patients walked past them, peering at the strange mix of people with doubt.

"You've survived a whole Basilisk, and _that_ tops your list?" Ron said, startled.

Before the witch could respond, a Healer stuck her head out of Hermione's door and shushed them with an angry scowl. And so, they waited. Penny left after four hours - Ginny escorted her home and returned to the hospital. And they still waited_. _Until the dead sun was again born and the early morning's light invaded the waiting room through the tall windows.

* * *

**St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Eleven Days Remaining. **

When Hermione regained consciousness, the foot of her bed swayed deliriously, the walls twirled, and overhead bright lights danced along. The medicinal scent of Dittany mixed with the acidic stench of the hospital made her gag. She tried lifting her neck to check her limbs but the resulting pounding that pierced her skull made her wince, as her eyes welled with fresh tears.

"Help…" croaked the witch. At once, a hand pressed firmly to her cheek and Ginny's gentle voice met her searching eyes.

"You're up! Oh, thank Merlin," sighed the redhead. From behind her, Ron beamed down at Hermione - his features seemed to relax, too.

"I'll fetch the Healer, okay?" offered Ron, moving away from the women. A vision of an elderly Ron passed before the brunette's eyes - she pushed and probed about her head, trying to decipher the strange sense of déjà vu that gripped her entirely. Before she could analyze the flitting thoughts, her mind fogged once more and instead, she kept returning to only one end: grey eyes, stark and speckless.

"Malfoy, is he here?" asked Hermione, suddenly. When she noticed Ginny's surprise, her tone shifted toward reluctance, "Um, I mean, he brought me here with Harry, right?"

"Yes," answered the suspicious witch, narrowing her eyes. "You know, Harry said even at the school, you were only ever repeating Malfoy's name."

When Hermione failed to respond, Ginny explained, "We haven't seen him since they've brought you here."

A Healer arrived at that moment, flanked by Ron and Harry on either side. The woman appeared motherly, with her kind eyes, a plump face and wide hips. A hologram fluttered from her wand as her eyes shifted studiously between Hermione and the mystical projection. A shining, bewitched badge on her white coat read _Gwerps _\- the letters vanished, and new ones appeared: _Head Healer_.

"Healer Gwerps," breathed Ginny, joining her fiancé by his side. "She's finally up!"

The Boy Who Lived flashed Hermione his signature grin, adjusting his glasses as Theo entered the room behind them all.

After shooting a spiteful look at the Slytherin, Healer Gwerps came to stand by Hermione's bed and said, "Ms. Granger, welcome back, your friends have been worried sick for you."

Hermione looked past the Healer, attempting to keep the sterile white walls from spinning, and smiled at her family. _Her people. _Her breath hitched as another jolt rushed through her body and she felt as if she was watching her own life play out in front of her. _And yet, there was something missing. _She couldn't quite focus, and her breathing accelerated as her mind began its unraveling.

Quick, thought the witch, focus on something, _anything_.

Yet, her eyes couldn't anchor on the hologram or the people or the customary, plain furniture in the room. The hammering at the center of her forehead intensified. When she pressed her eyelids shut, holding in the vomit that was clawing its way up, she found only one vision burning in her blindness: grey eyes.

_Malfoy. _Again, the air returned.

"You're in pain," stated the Healer, noticing a spike in the witch's vitals on the hologram.

"Well, it doesn't take a healing spell to know _that_," mumbled Ron, rolling his eyes.

The Healer worked her soft arms around Hermione's head, lifting it up to an uncomfortable position. She withdrew a clear vial from her coat, removed the stopper with expert hands and placed its brim against Hermione's lips. "This'll help," said the older witch.

"Calming Draught?" asked Hermione, genuinely curious. With her head held up, she could see her bandaged arms and legs, covered in gauze and soaked with Murtlap Essence. Her abdomen was caged inside a medical corset that pressed under her breasts. Some patches were crusting red with leftover blood, but she felt the most pain in her head as her stomach rolled with nausea.

"No, dear, it's much stronger," explained the Healer. "I believe the muggles call it 'morph_ine'."_

* * *

When she awoke again, the bandages were gone. The room spun once but then it found balance as the setting sun crept into the ward, creating long shadows on the pale walls. She propped herself up by the elbows and looked about for Ginny, noting that her skin was riddled with tiny paper-cut scars that were already fading.

He must have apparated directly into her room because one minute she was alone and the next minute Draco Malfoy stood as far away from her bed as possible, one hand ready on the door handle. He still wore the same white cotton dress-shirt from yesterday, bloodied, wrinkled and _so _un-Malfoy-like. Stuffing one hand in his pants' pocket, he studied her for a minute.

"You're awake," he noted.

"So it seems," responded Hermione. Draco just stared at her with uncaring eyes.

"Thank you," she stated simply.

"I want you to know, Granger, I have asked Potter to exchange my and Nott's duties," he informed her in a leveled voice, ignoring the gratitude. "Theo will research the curse with you, while I go after the brothers."

Hermione's protest remained at the back of her throat. It took her a moment to regret the fact that she was protesting something that should have been music to her ears.

"We don't work well together," she obliged, nodding to herself but hiding her eyes.

"No," he said, his greys brooding more than usual in the shadows. "Not at all."

He sauntered to her side with such elegance, and yet with no care in the world - very much like… like… a name sat on her tongue heavily but still, she couldn't say it. She found herself thinking of someone she didn't even know - a figment of her imagination. As the bile began to churn again, she looked up at Draco and found her anchor once more - his _bloody fucking eyes_.

The man picked up a photo frame by her bedside table, one she had failed to notice, and his lips turned upwards, dismal and tight. "Always together; in sickness and in health," he said blandly.

Hermione saw the picture within the frame - one of her with her friends at one of the Harpies' games - and smiled in surprise. The boys were not this thoughtful, it must have been Ginny's work, she decided.

Once he set the frame down, Draco conjured many small books from his pocket and returned them to their original size so that a heap formed beside her bed. Reading a few titles, Hermione gasped in shock.

"The price of your life, Granger," he remarked, nodding towards the texts.

She went through the publications fast, all nineteen of them - checking each title and smiling up at the stern-faced man with glee. His scowl only deepened, though, as he spat out, "I hope they were worth it."

"They were," retorted the witch, beaming, still.

Shaking his head, and struggling to control the anger that was surging through his every last vein, he bit out, "You do understand that you could have _died_, yes?"

"It would have made for the most perfect _Prophet _headline, then, wouldn't you say? '_Hermione Granger, killed by books!'" _A giggle slipped out from her lips, and mostly she blamed it on the morphine.

"Think this is funny, do you?" questioned the wizard, letting his emotions flare. "You daft woman - _so_ many things could have gone wrong!"

"Sorry, excuse me for trying to lighten up the mood-"

Draco scoffed to cut her off. "Lighten up the mood? We aren't exactly socializing-_"_

"I wouldn't even consider it," Hermione spat out, forgetting the books and putting all her remaining energy into the insult, "I would really rather die than give my time to an arrogant bastard like you."

"You're thick, Granger," gritted Draco. "I found you bleeding, barely breathi-"

"Oh, you think I wouldn't have found help, if not for you? Harry would have come anyway, I sent my Patronus-"

"Ah, yes, the same Harry Potter that stood by and watched me work spell after _fucking _spell but remained paralyzed - even more than you!" hissed Draco. "_That _Harry Potter would have _surely_ come to your rescue."

"Enough! I was not some damsel in distress, Malfoy," Hermione countered with frustration. "I can handle-"

"My point exactly, witch!" Draco barked back, "You're not a damsel in distress, you'll never be! You're Hermione fucking Granger. If you die, over some worthless books, do you know what that would do to the Golden Boy? The liter of Reds?"

_To...some other people. _Gulping back the thought, he decided on a more ambiguous generalization, "Did you once think about anyone else? Or did you decide to wager away your life just for the sheer fucking joy of it all?"

_That _shut her up.

"So," sighed Draco, collecting himself. "I'm giving you these books. On one condition."

She continued staring at him, bewildered.

"You won't return to Hogwarts. Not until we figure this shit out, Granger."

Before she could argue, he had already turned around and stalked out of her room, slamming the door behind him with force.

* * *

**Apologies in advance for any mistakes. Next chapter should be up around 1st or 2nd April!**

**~Kore.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Heya, here's the next bit! ****Like? Love? Hate? Don't care? Let me know in reviews ****:) Truly appreciating all your follows and favorites, keeps me motivated and makes my days!**

**JKR owns everything, as always.**

**Much love to you all,**

**Kore.**

* * *

**Chapter Six: Reading Through the Dense**

**St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Eleven Days Remaining.**

Ron and Ginny bustled into her room only a few hours afterward, holding her lunch tray which they set on Hermione's bedside table.

True to her nature, the wild-haired brunette lay in her bed, surrounded by mammoth books that seemed to occupy more space. When she finished her dry chicken and the watery broth, Ron pulled a few chocolate frogs from his pocket and slid them under her covers.

"For later," he explained, as he kept turning to look at the door to make sure that no Healer had seen his mischief.

Ginny pulled a chair and sat on her left, picking up an old text, and flipping through the pages, paying no mind to the words at all.

"You're still not giving up?" she asked after her inspection.

The redhead witch played with the ring on her finger - the same ruby one her fiancé had placed there six months ago. The magic within caused the color to darken and lighten with the conversation's temperament and it did not escape Ginny how at that very moment it was shifting towards a deep cherry. When she examined Hermione, she found the Gryffindor tenacity staring right back at her.

"Why would I give up now?" Hermione answered, raising an eyebrow. A charmed yet ineffective length of gauze held half of her hair up - but a few straying strands still tickled her face. She brushed them aside, rolled up her remaining locks, and shoved a pencil through the middle of the bun, securing it in place.

Ron readjusted three books and created a little space on her bed to the right. He sat awkwardly in the limited area, shifting his legs every few seconds, not quite sure where he ought to rest his hands.

"We've had to lie to your parents more than ten times in the last day," the wizard provided. The healthy ounce of jest that glistened in his eyes was gone, but The Golden Girl was already shaking her head, dismissing his arguments. "Forget about Hogwarts, Hermione. We need you more than we need a bloody school-"

"Argh! All of you, telling me what I can and cannot do-"

"Rabastan has been sighted, Hermione," Ginny interjected, glowering at Ron for making matters worse. "Just the other day in Amsterdam. We were going to discuss everything over dinner at the Notts'- anyways, there is hardly any point of you researching this case further. It's only a matter of a few days before the Aurors catch 'em."

"And what of it, Gin?" the wounded witch fired back, her eyes molten brown. "You think even if we catch them, they're just going to take back their curse? They are fanatics! The Lestranges will take the Kiss and years of torture before removing the curse on the castle, even you know that!"

"Yes, okay, fine. Resume all the world-saving after you're better," Ron conceded, avoiding his sister's frown. He knew there was no use sparring with Hermione in a fight of logic. "But please, at least rest until you've properly healed."

"Mhm, in fact," Ginny chimed, waving her wand, and casting a nonverbal spell, "I'm sending all these books off to the Notts - they'll work on it until you're out of here."

Hermione's eyes narrowed heatedly but she kept her mouth shut as all her texts and notes fluttered together in a neat pile by the door. Her mind toiled over the new information and she added the details to her mental map. If the voice was indeed Slytherin's anger, caged inside the castle walls, then they needed to find a cure for his rage. _A bond, _as the Sorting Hat had explained. Perhaps one of the Founders' works could point them in the right direction. The witch had a sinking feeling in her gut that while the Lestranges were pivotal to the beginning of the curse, they would not be able to control the end of it. The voice and its power were more ancient than the Lestranges', Voldemort, or even Grindelwald.

Snapping out of her reverie, Hermione inquired, "So Harry's in Amsterdam, then?"

Ginny shook her head, "Not quite. He's gone to the Three Broomsticks to confer with McGonagall. We are asking her to move to our place until all of this is done. It's better than the dingy Inn at least."

"That'll be bloody weird," Ron groaned. "She'll be there for Quidditch Thursdays. Every time you decide to have a pint, she'll be breathing down your necks, too. You'll need to clean your home better than when mum pops around-"

"Frankly, I'm just worried about the shagging. That bit _is _going to be a little unnerving," said the redhead witch. Ron gagged with a hoarse sound, despite Hermione's giggles which stopped short as she waited for her friends to spill more details about the curse.

"Malfoy's gone to investigate the lead in Amsterdam," Ginny offered at last.

"_Oh_, that's going to go superbly," Hermione scoffed, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Now, it was Ron's turn to giggle.

"There is one more thing," Ron added. His gaze darted from Hermione to Ginny and back to Hermione, again. "Ginny was made captain of the Harpies yesterday…"

The brunette turned to the woman whose cheeks were matching the shade of her fiery hair. "You're kidding?" exclaimed the witch.

Ginny bit her lip, smiling with a frown. "I wish! It's too much responsibili-"

"Oh hush, you! Congratulations!" Hermione yelped, "This is such great news, Gin!"

The witches embraced as best as it was possible, both beaming from ear to ear.

"But now you _must_ come for my games - your lame excuses won't work any longer," Ginny forewarned, knowing just how much Quidditch bored the absolute shit out of Hermione.

* * *

**13 Grimmauld Place. Nine Days Remaining.**

She returned home with a soft cast around her abdomen - which pierced into her insides whenever she laughed or coughed - within two days. They were the most frustrating two days of her life - riddled with distracting Weasleys who popped in to check on her every few minutes, meddling Healers who dosed her with enough morphine to knock out a full-grown troll and Harry Potter who refused to supply any new details of the case.

Hermione cleaned her own home first by wiping down all the surfaces the muggle way because somehow, in a matter of forty-eight hours, there was a blanket of dust over all her belongings. She brought Crookshanks back from Molly's place and visited her parents for lunch. When at last, she could not wait any longer, Hermione changed into an ivy sweater, fresh from the laundry and apparated away from inside her bedroom.

Hermione descended upon the Nott's residence, possibly uninvited. But the thought was too late as she had already announced herself by knocking at their door.

"Ready for some research?" exclaimed the witch as soon as Penny answered. The blond woman had leftover flour on the right side of her cheek, her hair was messily spilling out of a high bun and yet she looked refreshed in her crimson polka-dotted dress that dipped at her clavicles into a sweet-heart neckline. Nox peaked from behind her mum, shy and hesitant. The Ravenclaw's face lighted up with glee but her husband appeared less ecstatic.

"Please, do come in! I really could use some help," declared the host, pulling Hermione by the elbow and guiding her towards the warm kitchen.

The home smelled of cranberries and dough, with a hint of hazelnut. The air was heavy with the heat of the stove as the kitchen buzzed without an actual cook. Hermione was very familiar with Molly Weasley's whimsical magical household but this one appeared more thoroughly organized and young. The sink was pristine, the dishes all stood stacked on a drying rack. The two pots with bubbling liquids whistled at random as bewitched spoons whirled the contents once every few minutes. A set of wooden spatulas, tongs, and ladles hung above the pots and about seven different mason jars were labeled with the names of exotic spices on the counter. Unlike her parents' oven which shone a bright yellow light when it was baking away, this oven glowed blue.

Theo reappeared from the pantry, stowing away an apron that Hermione could swear read, _'I'm Penelope Clearwater's Horcrux'. _He offered her a welcoming yet embarrassed smile and said, "We're glad you're feeling better, Granger."

Turning to his wife, he added, "You two nerds do your thing, I'll get dinner ready."

Penelope shot him a playful grin, placed a quick kiss on his cheek, and motioned Hermione to follow her into the study. Their library was quaint, overflowing with fresh texts from Flourish and Blotts, a couple of which even Hermione had not bought still.

Noticing her guest's excitement, Penny explained, "Theo made the racks himself."

Her fingers brushed the oaken wood as she readjusted a misplaced volume. "I have been filling them with new editions every chance I get, and now there isn't enough space," she confessed.

"He really loves you," agreed Hermione, smiling along, as she eyeballed the whole room. Despite her deceiving expression, the witch's heart stiffened with a horrible longing. The way they looked at each other, with adoring eyes and uncontrollable delight, it melted everything around the couple. She hadn't felt that wave of belonging with Ron or Krum or McLaggen. Perhaps if she had committed to any of those men, they might have built her her own library by now, but she highly doubted that anyone of them could be so sensitive and knowledgeable of her likes and dislikes.

An image flashed before her eyes - one of an elderly couple on a picnic blanket, laughing - that comforted her for a heartbeat, before it, too, left. She focused on a picture, small yet placed in a silver-lined photo frame on one of the bookshelves, to regain her balance. Penelope came to stand beside her, studying the picture with Hermione. Amidst all the lifeless books, the exuding joy from that photographed moment stood out with unparalleled brilliance.

"It's just from two weeks ago, actually," Penny supplied. "From when they completed their Auror training."

Hermione's heart unclenched when she realized that the blond-haired wizard in the photo was actually smiling. Barely, but yet it was genuine. His grey eyes were still bored, despite the uninhibited upward turn of his lips. Her own fingertips ached to linger over his face in the photo, but the witch controlled herself. Something that Penny must have said right before the picture was captured seemed to amuse the man as he shot Theo a knowing glance in the frame. Every few seconds, the photo would repeat itself and Malfoy's face would soften again and again.

"You're his family," Hermione breathed. _Like how Ginny, Ron, and Harry were hers._ Before she could stop herself, she had already taken the frame in her hands.

"The only one he's got left," replied Penny, as she noticed the other witch's glazed features and understood the meaning behind her surprising words.

Turning to face Penny, Hermione said, "I heard how the Healer treated Malfoy and Theo. I'm so very sorry."

"Oh, _please!_" voiced the blond witch, though her smile fell first before it bounced back. "Gwerps is always a bitch. Plus, her half-hearted threats are just comical for the boys at this point."

"Still, it wasn't fair. They saved my life," the brunette remarked.

"You sound surprised," noted Penny, raising an eyebrow.

"We didn't get on much at Hogwarts."

"Neither did I," replied the Nott woman, mildly defensive. "They might be Slytherins, Hermione, and yes, they are still just as clever and cunning. But they're fiercely loyal to their own, ambitious and resourceful. Those are Slytherin qualities that people often forget about, you know."

Hermione still kept a firm hold on the frame, watching Draco smile. He had smiled at her like that when she was bleeding in the library, wincing out with pain - and before that in her own home when he had fished a rose petal out of her hair. A dangerous thought crossed her head and she shivered, in spite of the warmth. Was he wearing that smile when she was tortured before him in his own home, eight years ago? Surely, he could not have despised the humiliation of a Mudblood, especially the one that had troubled him for all those years in school. Although now, Hermione could only hope that he regretted it somehow.

Sensing the witch's pensive state, Penny said, "They're not bad people if that's what you're wondering."

"Of course, I know they are not. Theo is-"

Penny's reached out to touch the frame, cutting the brunette off. "I love romance novels, to be honest with you. Non-fiction bores me nowadays. Theo is a romance novel - an open book. You don't even need to read the whole thing to know that he's good, just the summary is enough," asserted the witch. "He's the one I can spend my whole life reading."

Hermione set the frame down on the shelves as Penny moved towards the large dragonwood desk in the center of the room.

"Draco, though," continued Penny, "is a French philosophy manifesto. I couldn't read one page if I tried, I'm telling you. Beneath it all, he has a heart, still. And I swear to Rowena, I know it is in the right place. He just needs someone who can work through all the dense material before the good bits start. Nevertheless, they are _both_ good men."

Hermione nodded, keeping mum. An aristocratic, pureblood French girl would do him well, she supposed. He needed someone who could match his indifference and poise. She pulled a parchment from her bag with an absent mind - choosing to focus on the case instead. The more she became preoccupied with Malfoy, the harder it was to reestablish her footing and concentration.

Penelope observed her reluctance, and mumbled, "I'm not worried for Draco, though." She picked up a thick text, one of the nineteen titles that Malfoy had rescued from the Hogwarts library, and began reading as she said, "These Slytherins have many traits, but none they have mastered as perfectly as their charm."

Their research session and dinner passed uneventfully. Hermione learned that Theo had a knack for cooking Egyptian curry and lentil rice. The conversation flowed with ease on the round dinner table - styled with a Renaissance mosaic painting that Hermione could not stop gushing over - until Penny excused herself to retrieve the pudding. The silence settled between the Gryffindor and the Slytherin, as audible as the clinking of the silverware. Hermione sipped her Merlot.

"You know, I never thanked you," Theo spoke with hesitation, setting his fork down to peer at the witch.

"'Hmm?" answered Hermione, suddenly finding the embroidery on the cloth napkin intriguing.

"For the other day, taking care of Draco," clarified Nott. He, too, kept plucking at a stray strand from his black sweater, trying his hand at nonchalance.

"Ah, yes. It was no trouble," she replied. "Not for me at least. I'm afraid, Malfoy found it to be far too intrusive."

Theo chuckled to himself at that, looking away for a second. "He's…guarded," the wizard stated after much consideration.

Hermione scoffed. "Now, that's an understatement."

They both sipped their wines.

"I heard he's in Amsterdam," said the witch.

Theo nodded, preoccupied.

"I'm not sure if it's my place to say this. I mean, Penny and you know him-"

He rolled his eyes, forgetting about the nonchalance. "Just say it."

"I don't think he should be there alone," confessed Hermione. "He's impulsive, spiteful, brimming with revenge when it comes to the Lestranges. He's going to take it too far or get himself hurt."

The man gulped.

"Have you told Potter?" asked Theo, picking up his fork again and taking a bite. Penny emerged from the kitchen, carrying a cranberry pie in her oven-mitted hands. Though the scent of berries and dough flooded the room, it did little to cut through the tough atmosphere.

Hermione shook her head, "No, as I said, it's not my place."

"Draco's more restrained now, I can assure you that," Theo replied, stern-faced. Penelope cut out four pieces, one of which she packed in a box for Hermione to take home later.

"Do you really believe that?" countered the brunette. "He could deceive Merlin if he tried."

"He couldn't deceive you," Theo shot back. "But yes, I do. I believe he's...better."

Hermione sipped from her glass again and focused on her piece of pie instead. Penny quickly diverted them to a lighter subject which they both participated in with half-hearted enthusiasm. When she gathered her belongings and made to leave, Theo gave her a tight smile that made Hermione feel like she had offended him somehow.

After the Golden Girl left their company, the couple lounged by the fireplace and finished the remaining Merlot under the dim lighting. Nox played by their feet until Penny swooped her up and made her sit on her lap, graciously petting the little kitten.

"Did you tell her?" the witch asked her husband who was staring at the brick hearth.

"No, it would have just made matters worse," Theo said, meeting his wife's doe-eyes.

"But you do agree with her," Penny simply stated, calculating the fearful look on her husband's face. She dragged her supple fingers from his creasing forehead to the bridge of his nose, grazing his cupid's bow, lips, and chin. His frown disappeared instantly. "Draco needs you."

"He's a grown man, Pens," the husband argued, taking his wife's fingers in his hands, and kissing them softly. "Just like how I am a grown man - married, with a pregnant wife. You're my responsibility first," as he said this, the man placed a firm hand over her ballooning abdomen, "I have to make sure the two of you are safe before I jump in to save him."

She brushed his hand off and folded her arms across her chest. "That's your excuse, Nott?"

The witch shoved further away from him, and drew a throw blanket over her lap, shrouding the yawning Nox in darkness.

"It's a damn good reason," he managed, reading her disappointment.

"Look me in the eye, Theodore," she pleaded, drawing him in again. "At least look me in the eye when you lie to me."

"What would you have me do?" exasperated Theo, forcing her in a tight embrace and resting his chin on her head. When their fingers intertwined, she smiled reluctantly, despite the previous tension.

"The right thing, love," she said, as she rubbed soothing circles into his bicep. "And I think you know exactly what that is."

He considered her words for a second and then nodded. "How come she knows him so well?"

Penny chewed on the inside of her cheek, thinking, before shrugging her shoulders.

"Even the other day, she had figured out why Draco had asked Potter to tell him about the Lestranges first - before anyone else. Today, too, she just _knew_," Theo wondered aloud.

"Hermione's an exceptionally clever witch," reasoned the wife.

"I suppose," Theo said. He didn't express this to her then, but there was something else. A spark in the Gryffindor's eyes that told a different story - an emotion that confused him more than anything else. And he only had seen it glimmering on her features when they talked about his best mate.

* * *

**700 Wenlock Way, Wizarding Amsterdam, Netherlands.** **Nine Days Remaining. **

Draco shuffled about his temporary home, feeling more restless than usual. He peered out the window, keeping his gaze on the low water in the canal as it flowed towards the Amstel River. Loosening his necktie, the wizard collapsed onto the sofa and poured himself a glass of Butterbeer from a can - hoping against hope that the floodwaters in his head would recede as well. Chasing after the crumbs that Rabastan and Rudolphus had left behind them proved to be tedious work. After leaving London, the wizard had spent sixteen hours personally tracking down leads to find the brothers. He had visited seven restaurants, used Legilimens on several unsuspecting muggles who might have had significant memories and inquired about the Lestranges across countless businesses. While luck did not seem to favor him, Draco _was_ scheduled to meet with Irma Maijer tomorrow morning – the woman who had alerted the English Ministry of Magic about Rabastan's sighting.

Head swimming with hope and wariness, he let it drop back and stared at the ceiling, finally succumbing to his relentless thoughts. Thrice he had caught his mind wandering down a path that seemed far too dangerous, and thrice he had cursed and vowed to never think of those things again. And yet, here he was. The loneliest wizard in all of Europe, remembering his enemy, and daydreaming about her stupid chocolate eyes. He closed his grey ones and found her smiling face burning in the back of his eyelids in the darkness. Draco exhaled and loosened his tie, even more, undoing the top buttons of his dress shirt.

"You alright, mate?"

The sound made Draco jump out of his seat and reach for his wand. He pointed it towards the sound and a _Stupefy _almost slipped past his tongue on impulse. When he recognized Nott's messy hair, he lowered his arm, cursing to himself.

"What the _fuck_, Nott?" Draco roared.

Theo raised an eyebrow skeptically, walked over to the sofa, and opened a new butterbeer for himself.

"Don't fucking _do that_," seethed the blond, still glaring at his friend.

"What? Give you company as you wallow in self-pity?" said Theo, making himself comfortable on the leather couch.

The Malfoy heir stood in place, studying the black-haired wizard. "What exactly are you doing here?"

"Baby-sitting you, isn't it obvious?"

"I don't need babysitting," retorted Draco, his anger building.

"Well, some people think otherwise."

"Is 'some people' Penny? Tell your wife to focus on her own husband and child-"

"Not Penny, no," interjected Nott, throwing off his mate. "Your twat-like behavior has caught someone else's eye, I'm afraid."

"Theo, honestly mate, I'm way too exhausted for these riddles."

"Granger doesn't think you should be here alone - what with your recent psychopathic behavior when it comes to the Lestrange brothers," answered Theo, chuckling darkly.

"Granger?" questioned Draco, "As in Hermione Granger?"

"Do you know of any other Granger?"

"_She_ called _my_ behavior psychopathic?" Draco barked. "The same barmy woman who walked headfirst into her death only three days ago?"

"I don't remember her using that word in particular, but she did say that you are-" and for this Theo used air quotes, "- 'impulsive, spiteful' and I believe the last bit was 'brimming with revenge'."

Draco scoffed, his eyes steel and thunder. "You believe that shit, too."

Theo drank his butterbeer quietly.

"You wouldn't be here if you didn't agree with her, Nott," the wizard spat again. "Don't fucking play me, alright?"

"Can't we just have a pint together like the old times?" suggested Theo, evidently deflecting.

"Not when you think I'm incompetent of handling myself."

"You know I don't think that mate. I'm just here to help," Theo sighed.

Draco stood speechless, grinding his teeth with burning eyes.

"I _do _think that you're a right wanker, though," pointed out the dark-haired man.

Still, Malfoy stood by the sofa and looked at his friend with curiosity. "How exactly are you going to help me? Are we going to knit and drink tea and talk about our feelings?"

"If that's what you want," Theo answered, grinning.

"A pint will do," said Draco, shaking his head and surrendering at his friend's insistence. "For now," he added, attempting to dissolve the strain, as he melted back into the couch.

"Hey, knitting and tea and talking about feelings can be _really_ therapeutic, okay?" Nott retorted.

"You _would_ know, Nott," Draco replied, finally smiling. He opened another can, tilted their glasses, and poured some more frothy Butterbeer.

* * *

**Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Netherlands. Eight Days Remaining.**

He knew he was in for a challenging day when Draco downed his second vial of Pepper-Up Potion at ten-thirty in the morning. The acidic brew burned on its way down, reminding him of the Cognac and the Geneva gin that Theo and he had switched to after the Butterbeer, sending another wave of nausea rippling through his body. Fixing the collar of his shirt for what felt like the seventh time in a short hour, Draco marched towards the Head Office of the Dutch DMLE. Unlike the underground English Ministry, its Dutch counterpart was a historical landmark with a colossal stone-cut exterior, hidden from the muggles but situated right on the riverbank. Each floor had a row of French windows on all four walls - most of them were propped open with magic to let in the owls. But just like the offices back home, many desks were unoccupied as charmed quills worked by themselves over piles of parchment. Draco felt the effects of the potion overshadow the tiresome ache in his body and he increased his pace.

Once he submitted his paperwork, credentials, and witness request, a timid lady led him past a hallway of maroon doors that presumably all held witnesses from various cases. Without any open windows in the tight corridor, little light graced the shiny tile floors and the hospital-esque shift in decor slaughtered his developing appetite.

Draco nearly ran into the woman when she took a sharp right turn, opened a door with the number _786_ plastered in the middle, like some dismal muggle hotel room. Clenching his jaw, he peered at her skeptically, but she just nodded and explained, "In here, sir, the interrogation has already begun."

* * *

As soon as the door flew open, Hermione tore away her eyes from studying Irma and focused on the petite secretary who had led her to the very room only minutes before. _Vesta, if she had remembered right. _The woman did not even spare the occupants a glance, and only stared at someone outside the door as she squeaked in her hesitant voice. It was hard to miss Vesta's words in the closet-sized room, but their meaning was lost on the brunette witch. The man sauntered in, looking perplexed yet collected. Hermione should have known it would be him, it _was _his investigation that she had plundered after all, but still, she felt herself stiffen in his presence. His silk navy shirt contrasted darkly against his pale skin, and his upturned left collar stood out against the rest of his ironed clothes. He ran an absent-minded hand through his blond strands and offered Irma a tight smile, one which she did not reciprocate. When he turned to face Hermione, the remaining color drained from his face so that his skin matched his hair. He slammed the files in his hand down on the table and the sound echoed louder than the door's closure as Vesta exited - his mouth twisting as if he had just whiffed something rotten. Dragging a metal chair against the bare floor with a screeching noise for theatrics, he scowled at Hermione and took his place next to her with a heavy sigh. Although Irma was under interrogation, the burden of his smokey glare made Hermione shift away from him in the slightest.

"So," he gritted, enunciating each word with added bitterness, "Care to fill me in, Granger?"

* * *

**Apologies for any messy errors. Next update by 5/10/20 at the latest. **

**Kore.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you Thank you Thank you for all your love! Please review, favorite/follow the story! **

**okay I'll let you read now, see ya on the other side,**

**~Kore.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven: The Interrogation **

**Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Netherlands. Eight Days Remaining.**

Hermione cleared her throat and through tight lips, muttered, "We had only just begun, actually."

"Irma," she said to the middle-aged woman. "This is Mr. Malfoy, he's one of the Aurors from London, here to ask you a few questions."

"Then why are you here?" retorted Irma. "I thought that was your job," she barked at Hermione, keeping her inspective gaze on Draco. Despite her German name, a Russian accent underpinned the witch's syllables. She was a pug-faced woman with dull chestnut hair that ended in a short bob at her shoulders. The fringed bangs ate up most of her forehead and covered her blue eyes enough for them to appear almost black.

Since the time Hermione had escorted her into the room, introduced herself, and been interrupted, the woman had not offered her a single gesture of civility or behaved even with mild courtesy. Not that anyone owed her a smile or common pleasantries, but the brunette found it quite odd that the woman who had approached law enforcement on her own terms to report the sighting of the most wanted man in all of wizarding Europe was being reclusive and sullen.

"Yes, Miss Granger, why _are _you here?" repeated Malfoy, his naïve smirk challenging her.

Both the women were glaring at Draco, but he took no notice of the witness. He could cast a non-verbal _Legilimens_ with no effort, but Granger was probably a skilled Occlumens; and on the off chance that she was not fully occluded, he didn't want to create a scene in front of the older witch.

Disregarding his prying question, Hermione turned to Irma and answered, "'It would do us all well if you tried to cooperate. After all, the end goal is to catch the brothers, no?"

As she said this, Hermione canted her head towards Malfoy, hoping that he would get her message. Instead, he huffed and kept his jaw tense.

"Alright, let's get on with it, then," Irma submitted. She reached for her purse and pulled forth a small notepad. Writing in small, ineligible circles, she glanced up at Hermione and Draco and asked them to repeat their names. When they complied, she jotted down the necessary information in a hurry, stowed away the pad and began to study the chipping wall paint with a vulturous stare.

The room, if it could be called that, was a hollowed square, barely wide enough to fit the investigators, the metal table, and their witness. Even though she was wearing a pencil skirt, Hermione refrained from crossing her legs because on the right she would have met Draco's ankles, in the front her knees would have collided with Irma's and to the left she had placed her handbag and folders on the ground. If she listened close, the witch could hear someone questioning a suspect in the room next to theirs with ample hostility to force out a confession. The man to her right was surveying the older witch as he pushed up the sleeves of his dress shirt, just far up his forearms to still conceal the Mark. His mouth twitched and he swallowed, but when Irma raised a perplexed eyebrow at him, he shook his head and masked his true intentions with a foxlike smile.

"Mrs. Maijer alerted the English Ministry after she watched Rabastan enter and leave _Portions to Potions _\- her husband's shop three days ago at about six in the afternoon," supplied Hermione. Pushing her notes in front of Malfoy, she tried to shiver out of the tickle that bolted through her spin when their arms brushed.

Draco ignored her bullet points and her elaborate cursive scrawl that reminded him of Narcissa. "So, your husband must have seen him as well," the wizard reasoned.

"Adel," the woman breathed with a lost look and a thick voice. "It's his shop but he's usually running across the continent meeting with suppliers, harvesting ingredients. I run the shop mostly, but I was visiting the baker across the street when I saw Lestrange go in. By the time I could run back, he was already gone."

"Did he take anything?" asked Hermione, scribbling down more information on her parchment.

"Yes, all of our stores of Murtlap tentacles and Ashwinder eggs are gone," lamented Irma, though her attention returned to the thin walls.

"And no one else saw him?" Draco inquired, folding his arms across his chest, and leaning back in the chair.

"The shops normally close by seven so the streets were rather empty," said the older witch. Her eyes shifted to the door and she coughed.

"How do you know it was him?" questioned Hermione. The _thud _of a neighboring door as it closed resounded across the room and caused Mrs. Maijer to jump. She said something about Rabastan's face being on every wanted poster across Europe, but the words seemed to ricochet like a faint murmur in the background for Draco.

He dragged his eyes away from the pallid woman and rested them on Granger, stealing glances at her from the periphery of his vision. Her thick curls were twisted in a simple braid that morning, but a strand framed her dimpled cheeks on either side. He scratched the back of his marble-white knuckles to drive away the urge to reach out and tuck one of her strands behind her ear. The olive-colored shirt flowed with her curves and plunged to reveal her sun-kissed clavicles. Still, it was modest enough to hide her cleavage. Draco wondered if she still remembered the touch of his palm against her stomach - how he had lent her warmth and how they had shared the autumn air in the dusty library. He shifted his focus back on the older witch, but the wizard wanted nothing more than to verify with his own eyes - _and hands - _if her wound was healing alright.

"Sorry, what?" said the man when he found the women looking at him curiously, expecting answers to a question he had failed to hear.

"Have the Dutch Aurors found anything from her shop?" repeated Hermione; her voice was disdainful as she scribbled more notes with an unmatched fervor.

"No," Draco replied.

She looked up from her parchment wearing a confused expression which melted off as soon as she saw the flecks of blue in his grey eyes - they were surrounded by long, curved platinum-blonde lashes that could tempt anyone to sin. She gulped back the stuffy air in the crowded space, waiting for him to throw another leering remark her way but he was too busy counting the freckles on the bridge of her nose to notice anything else. Her freckles and the way Hermione's teeth sunk into her bottom lip when she was preoccupied seemed to leak into his bloodstream - hell, even his _magic_. He felt something soar at the base of his own lungs as Draco became sensitized to her every inhale and exhale. His mind was deep in intoxication, diving a thousand leagues into her scent and plunging with increasing speed as the seconds trudged past.

Irma shifted in her chair, picked at her cuticles, and examined her nails. Again, she reached into her bag, retrieved the notepad, and wrote down a few things, cloaking the contents under the shadow of her hair and arm. The Slytherin floated back to reality. He concentrated on her peculiar movements, and there it was - a Queen's Gambit staring him in the face again, mocking him as he danced around the truth, trying to decipher Irma Maijer_._ Yet, every time he tried to read the woman, she met him with a blank stare that reminded Draco of Dolores Umbridge. And though the Malfoys had hosted many of the Dark Lord's meetings in their home with Umbridge's presence and though he had joined her Inquisitorial Squad, Draco nursed a deep-rooted disliking for the woman who had tortured numerous innocent witches, wizards, and muggles at the Manor.

He saw as Granger scratched something off from her parchment and was about to open her mouth to speak before he reached for her hand under the table, wrapped his fingers around her wrist and shook his head a fraction of a millimeter as if to say, _don't. _

When he cast the nonverbal spell, Draco found the older witch occluded beyond measure - so much so that she did not even blink as he tried to wade through the dark waters of her mind. It was as if she did not take notice of his constant attacks on her mental fortress, almost as if she wasn't even thinking about the fortress at all. Her shields were stiff, and unyielding but not hidden. In fact, unlike traditionally well-equipped witches and wizards who protected themselves from Legilimency by distracting their thieves with other memories, this witch had a complete block on her mental slate.

Hermione yanked back her wrist and rubbed the area where Malfoy had pressed his fingers into her flesh. He seemed preoccupied, glaring at Irma with stubborn concentration - even his body had forsaken the signature Malfoy poise and was strained as he shifted to rest both his elbows on the table.

Then Draco blinked, sighed and when Irma looked up, he smiled with a predator-like calmness and said, "That's all the questions we have, for now, Irma. Thank you."

He was already collecting his blazer from the back of his chair and rising to depart from the room as Hermione widened her eyes in shock.

"Granger?" called the pureblood, turning to face the women again as he held the door handle. "Can I have a word?"

Instead, Irma stood, grabbed her purse, and shuffled past the table-

"Actually, Mrs. Maijer, we'll have you wait in here for the time being - until the Aurors are ready to escort you," Draco interrupted. "I'm afraid we can't let you go until we're absolutely certain about your safety."

A disgruntled Hermione gathered her belongings, bid the older witch adieu, and joined Draco outside the interrogation room. He stared at her, waiting for an explanation.

"Just for the record, I had more questions," she demurred.

"Why are you here, Granger?" he said, shaking his head with astonishment as a frown graced his pale features. "Have you run from the hospital?"

"I was discharged yesterday," Hermione grunted, rolling her eyes. "One of my legislative drafts needed the Belgian Minister's signature," she reluctantly explained, "I thought to pay our friend a little visit since I was in the area."

It wasn't a complete lie. After all, she had met with the Belgian Minister just that morning to discuss elf rights.

"And I thought I made it clear I don't want to work with you," contended the wizard.

"Frankly, I don't care," she snapped back. "I'm here for the case, Malfoy, might as well get used to it."

He studied her again. The curve of her swan-like neck, how it swept into her shoulders-

"You noticed something, didn't you?" she asked, forcing his eyes to meet her honey ones again.

"She's a rigid Occlumens," agreed the wizard, as he walked away from the maroon doors. Calculating the facts in her head, Hermione matched his stride.

"She's hiding something," said the witch.

They walked across the floor with the open windows and entered the confined lift.

"But you're sure?" Hermione inquired, "The Aurors didn't find anything at her shop?"

She reached for the sixth-floor DMLE button with an absent mind, but Draco brushed her fingers away.

"They didn't," he confirmed, pressing the ground floor button instead, "But we might."

* * *

**Wizarding Amsterdam. Eight Days Remaining.**

The shop was guarded with heavy wards and two Aurors who spoke in hushed tones as the shoppers charged and strolled around them at various paces. Couples were walking hand-in-hand, and separate groups of teenagers and high-spirited witches were scuttling together as they exclaimed outside of exhibiting windows. Amidst the hectic crowd, _Portions to Potions_ stuck out like a sore thumb with its dreary windows and a moldering front sign that hung crooked.

Hermione and Draco apparated to a lonely alley and surveyed the street in silence as they neared the shop, with the wizard trailing a few feet behind the Gryffindor. When they reached their intended place, she unfastened the topmost button of her shirt, freed her hair from the braid, and ran her fingers through it to give it a windswept look as Draco watched, his jaw clenched in a stern bite. The witch approached one of the Aurors - a man sporting a thick English mustache - and tried her best to play coy. The sauntering blond followed, maintaining a safe distance, yet remaining within earshot. Enjoying the witch's futile attempts at temptation, he observed with an arched brow and an amused smirk.

"Merlin's beard!" squealed Hermione in an unnaturally high pitch, "You're an Auror, are you? A _real _Auror?" she gasped as she rested an unsure hand on the man's bicep.

The Auror nodded, but his hawkish eyes didn't stray from the warded establishment. A few people pointed at _Portions to Potions_ as they passed and exchanged rumors in private whispers, but no one dared to converse with its guardians as Hermione.

"And you're protecting this shop, yes?" the witch pouted, squeezing her fingers around his arm. Again, he seemed impermeable to her charms, as the man shrugged off her hand.

"Were there Dark wizards here?" she tried once more, as Malfoy's hearty chuckle echoed behind her. "I've never-"

"Miss," said the Auror, "I'm going to stop you right there. You're not getting in this shop; it's under investigation."

"But if you could show me around-"

"Unless you want to spend the rest of your day in some dingy cell under the DMLE, I'd suggest you find yourself another attraction, Ma'am," the man spat in a grating manner and he reached for his wand in the holster.

"That won't be necessary, Meneer," a voice came from behind, as Draco found her elbow and tugged Hermione away from the stone-faced wizard, flashing him a polite smile.

"Sweet Salazar, Granger, you had to get into the shop, not his pants," leered the blond when she glowered at his strong hold on her arm.

"We could have just _told_ him that we needed to investigate on our own," she snapped, scowling still.

"And antagonize the entire Dutch Ministry?" he fired back. "They don't want the London office interfering in their leads."

The witch narrowed her eyes at him but kept following his path down the street, even though his hold from her had slipped.

"Plus, woman," added Draco as he opened the door to a small cafe, "that was positively more entertaining to watch."

He guided Hermione into the shop with the touch of his firm palm on her lower back. The scent of fresh dough drifted in the air as the shopkeeper levitated several cakes, floating them right under the noses of the undecided customers who stood in line and kept glancing at the menu with wavering eyes. Pastries, scones, and muffins were layered on circular tier stands on every table. A tight-faced woman, with a sharper nose than even McGonagall, tapped away her son's hand when the young boy reached for another cupcake. At the very end of the shop, there were three booths - each one was already occupied with young lovebirds who were huddling together in the space of one, sharing pastries from a single plate. Paintings and pictures of old patrons lined the pastel peach walls and encouraged customers to try their favorite recipes. Hermione glanced back at the street through the window and stared at the Aurors perched outside of _Portions to Potions. _So, this was the bakery that Irma-

"Yes," said Draco as he walked over to a table with a view of the outside hustle. When she raised a troubled eyebrow, he clarified, "It's written all over your face."

Hermione noticed how he pulled back her chair, strode over to the other side, retrieved his wand to cast a quick _Muffliato, _and slid into his own seat.

"What now?" proposed the witch, still watching the Aurors as she sat. "'Suppose we should ask the baker if he's seen something."

"I questioned him yesterday already. Nothing in his memories, either," explained Draco.

"Must you do that with everyone?" she demanded. When he responded with an innocent look, Hermione continued, "It's rather impolite, and quite honestly, a violation of others' right to privacy."

"Most people who care about their privacy _that_ much have already built defenses," justified the blond, looking as smug as ever, despite her accusatory tone.

"It's impolite," she repeated. Noticing how her nose scrunched with disapproval, Draco could not take the suspense any longer.

"Tell me, Granger, are you an Occlumens?"

She looked at him with disbelief for a brief moment before averting her gaze in a hurry.

"So you aren't," he grinned. "This day couldn't get any better."

"Can we focus on the bigger picture? How are we going to get into the shop?"

He followed her gaze and both their eyes settled on the Potions store before he leaned back into his chair. "The Aurors change guard every four hours - there's about twenty minutes left until the next shift. They usually report to each other out of the public eye, just around the corner. That gives us about five to seven minutes when the place is warded but there won't be any security around."

Hermione nodded in response. "I'm guessing these are just standard Ministry wards we're talking about?"

"Yes, nothing you can't handle," Draco affirmed; the ghost of a grin danced on his lips as he shot her a quick wink, stood, and walked over to the counter. "Coffee?" he asked from afar.

Gulping back the aftershocks from his suggestive remark, Hermione croaked out, "Tea will do, Earl Grey with a splash of milk and two sugars, please."

When he returned with their drinks, the witch said her _thank you_ and sipped from the steaming foam cup. "You didn't strike me as a coffee drinker," said the Golden Girl as she studied him from across the table.

"That's because I'm not," responded Draco, searching the pockets of his trousers for something. He drew up a vial, removed the lid of his cup, and decanted all its contents into the hot liquid. "PepperUp, it works faster in warm water," he added as he reapplied the lid and gulped down the drink.

"Am I making you sleepy, Malfoy?" teased Hermione.

"On the contrary," countered the wizard. "Can't afford to be sluggish with the Lioness now, can I?"

Something about the way he said it made her want to hide her smile. She _hated_ that moniker, only because it was Rita Skeeter's favorite one to use whenever that deceitful woman wrote about her. If there was ever any news about the Golden Trio from Skeeter, the headlines always read, '_The Gryffindor Lioness This,' _or '_The Gryffindor Lioness That,' _\- it was exhausting after eight years. But now that the word had tumbled out from Draco's lips, she unexpectedly longed to hear it again. Hermione picked at the napkin in front of her and played with the rim of her cup because the witch had never before navigated through non-territorial, courteous waters with the grey-eyed Slytherin.

"Theo and I were just out late after a few drinks for quidditch," the wizard commented, noting her suddenly demure mood.

"He was in Amsterdam last night?" questioned Hermione.

"Yes."

She pressed her lips together in understanding, rushing to think of a distraction since she had an inkling where the conversation was headed. "There's a quidditch pitch nearby?"

Shaking his head, Draco sighed, "It was late enough so we cast a few Disillusionment Charms on a muggle field."

Hermione nodded and avoided his musing grey stare. "Is that something you enjoy, one-on-one qui-"

"You know, he mentioned a funny thing," interrupted the blond, "something about you not trusting me to handle-"

"I said no such thing!" the witch grumbled as she felt her cheeks turn a deep cherry hue, betraying her. _So much for trying to avoid the topic. _

Malfoy kept his hard eyes on her. Waiting.

"I was just - I had to be sure that you wouldn't do anything stupid," she confessed.

His forehead tensed with confusion, but the wizard steeled his gaze and swallowed all the doubt.

"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence," he remarked icily.

Cocooned within an awkward and drawn out silence, they waited as the Aurors rechecked their wards, scanned the emptying lane, and finally began their trek to the street's corner. Hermione rushed after the wizard as he exited the bakery and walked over the cobblestoned way with ease (she would later nurse a swollen ankle as the sharp edge of her heels kept getting caught in the gaps).

A few shoppers lingered, laughed, and chatted under the luminous afternoon sun at the corner but still, there was no sign of the Aurors. The witch cast four consecutive spells and suspended the wards with a swish of her wrist. Draco inspected the entrance with hesitation, pointed his wand at the shop, and whispered an incantation. An azure aura enveloped _Portions to Potions_ and drifted away after a beat.

"No dark magic," confirmed the witch as she pushed past the rickety wooden doors and entered the store. Once more, her shoes resounded with a sharp click against the floorboards in the darkness until they both whispered _Lumos Maxima. _

The shop smelled of old wine and jaggery - far off, the pair could hear a few mice scuttling. The shopkeeper's counter had different magical weighing scales to account for ingredients and on the back wall, vials, cauldrons, flasks, and firmly clasped boxes held every ingredient that Hermione could name - and she could name them all. Draco had already snuck behind the counter and was trying to _Accio _Murtlap tentacles and Ashwinder eggs without any success.

"They could be used for anything," Malfoy barked after his futile efforts. "Healing potions, Murtlap Essence, Amortentia…It doesn't lead us anywhere."

"_Accio_ common rue," whispered Hermione, joining him behind the counter and glancing up at the towering wall. A few vials clattered together in the darkness before a flask, the size of one of the larger textbooks in her collection, floated forward and rested on the counter. Within it, however, laid only a pinch of brick-like, yellow powder that Hermione emptied onto the nearest measuring scale; but the remaining contents did not change the reading by more than five milligrams.

Understanding the troubled look on her face and the nervous shake in her hands, Malfoy scoffed from behind her shoulder.

"Not possible, Granger," he remarked, "it takes more than six months to brew."

"But what if they _have_ been brewing it for six months? What if they just needed to restock a few ingredients?"

"Rabastan and Rudolphus didn't escape Azkaban until three months ago, andthe Maijers could have just run out of rue; the woman didn't even mention that it was missing," Draco pointed out.

"Yes, but it is! Do you really believe that one of the only potions shops in all of Amsterdam doesn't even have one gram of common powdered rue?" asked Hermione, turning her back to the counter to face Draco.

He was close now, but she didn't mind - her mind was reeling a great distance away from those matters. Hermione was already dissecting plans and counterplans that the Lestranges could have concocted to lead the Aurors astray.

"Even if you are right, what good would it do them now?" the wizard asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. But the witch wasn't listening to him anymore - her eyes were far off, wide, lost in thought, and yet _warm_. No, not _warm_ \- they were a liquid inferno, beaming with a dangerous glint.

"Granger?"

"I know this sounds mental," whispered Hermione, arching her neck to meet his coal-like gaze, "but Irma - you said she was skilled at Occlumency - what if this is what she was hiding?"

Draco considered the possibility, still finding gaps in her presumptions. "It doesn't make sense, she reported Rabas-"

He could _almost_ hear Lestrange mock him in the confines of his own head. "Check, Draco," flickered Rabastan's voice, "Too busy watching your Queen to care about the pawns. Now look where that's gotten you," he laughed.

"Fuck," cursed Draco as he moved away from Hermione's distracting rose-flavored scent and her tousled hair. Outside he could hear the Aurors return. Their muffled voices grew louder when they realized that someone had tampered with the wards.

This time, it was Hermione who reached for his wrist and pulled him away from the back wall that faced the entrance and ran into a rickety door on the left. Once inside, she pointed her wand at the knob and murmured, "_Colloportus_."

The room must have been the Maijers' traveling lounge because it was the size of a closet, and only housed three coats and a single blocked fireplace, without any Floo powder. The pair heard the Aurors barge through the shop's main doors but as soon as Hermione placed her arm on Draco's to apparate to the London Ministry, a torturous sting hummed through their bodies as the Aurors reestablished the wards around the shop.

"Shit," said Draco, running his fingers through his platinum blond hair. "You're right, you know?" he confessed, meeting Hermione's chocolate eyes.

"I hate being right," sighed the witch, as her head whipped around, scanning the room for other exits.

"Irma knew about the rue," Draco added, standing in his place unbothered, "and if she hid that piece of information-"

"It means she wanted us to think that the Lestranges were in Amsterdam," Hermione agreed hastily, as she attempted to dissolve the wards once again without much luck; they were strengthened this time. "Can we worry about getting out of here first, Malfoy?"

He studied the Gryffindor - her forehead was furrowed with worry, and a few of her famous curls were falling on her face. Despite the lack of light, she looked beautiful in the shadows.

"I have a way out, Granger," he offered, removing the Malfoy heirloom ring from his finger. "But you're not going to like where it leads."

Hermione tightened her hold on his wrist and relished the way his warmth flooded under her skin. The Aurors pounded on their door and tried a few unsuccessful _Alhomoras_ \- their cacophonous shouts mixed together.

He pushed the ring into her soft palm and wound his fingers into hers. The last thing Hermione heard was the Aurors' _Reducto _on the locked oaken door and Draco's cool voice in her ear when he whispered "_Portus_," before her vision spun clockwise and counterclockwise ten times and she felt the terrible pull of the portkey in her gut as she landed on a cold, black marble floor that so distinguishably could only belong to the Malfoy Manor.

* * *

**Malfoy Manor. Eight Days Remaining.**

The crashing noise that marked their master's arrival, sent all the house-elves scurrying as they rushed to greet him with excitement, but one elf, in particular, just could not draw his attention away from the book in his lap. It was Draco's copy of Advanced Potion-Making, with several dog-eared pages and notes that were scribbled in the margins, illegible to the poor creature's inquisitive eyes.

Even the crack of air from Zilly's apparition did not shake the studious elf. "Mise!" squealed his friend. She snatched the book away from him and set it on the lowest shelf. "Master Draco is here, Mise! We _must _welcome him; it's just been _so _long! Come on now," she insisted.

Mise smiled, finally forgoing the book, and reached out for her twig-like fingers before they apparated to the parlor together.

The wind from their departure sent the thin pages flying to a new recipe - one that was bookmarked, with underlined words, and stained silver from the residue of ground-up Occamy eggshells.

'_Felix Felicius,' _announced the title and underneath it, Draco had written _Liquid Luck._

In the corner, under _Ingredients_, his younger self had made a thorough list that read:

_Ashwinder egg_

_Squill bulb_

_Murtlap tentacle_

_Tincture of thyme_

_Occamy eggshell_

_Powdered common rue_

* * *

**Until next time,**

**Kore.**

**P.S. I borrowed a bit of Felton's lyrics from his song _Only You - _"cuz you're tickling my spine when you brush my arm" - a little tribute to him since he's practically the captain of the dramione ship at this point.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Holy mother of god, this chapter was hard to write. Let me know what you think :) **

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Out of Danger and Into Some More**

**12 Grimmauld Place. Eight Days Remaining.**

Harry rummaged around his old school trunk. He sifted through the worn-out shirts, sweaters that didn't quite fit him any longer, and quidditch uniforms from all the six years. Behind him, Ginny entered the room, quirked a curious eyebrow at his bent over form, and proceeded to the window where a vulturous owl kept up it's insistent tapping.

"Post for you, love," she said, tossing the mail over to the wizard while she fed treats to the bird from the palm of her hand.

Distracted as ever, Harry ignored the letter and focused on finding his damned shirt. "You're positive? It has to be green?"

Her response was lost amidst a sudden charge of noise. The letter fluttered from its post on the wooden side table beside the haggard trunk and launched itself at Harry who tried (unsuccessfully) to brush it away. Instead, the failed attempt left him with a neatly sliced cut on his finger that began to bead with fresh blood.

He murmured curses before picking up the thrashing paper from the floor as he stuck his finger in his mouth to quench the pain. The written words were practically pouncing at him.

_Barny!_

_Game's on, meet us where you won the first of three. Orville and Wilbur are already flying. Bring Gin and tonic if possible!_

_Love from Mafalda_

Harry's eyes turned to slits in confusion as he shook his head and thrust the seizing paper aside.

"It's just rubbish," he said.

Behind him, the witch was sorting through heaps of his trousers and t-shirts in the closet. "A-ha!" she exclaimed, softening out the wrinkles from a dark green shirt. "Found it!"

Harry grimaced in response as he shoved his arms through the tight silk fabric, "It doesn't even fit me Gin!"

"Oh, stop the whinging, Chosen One," she said rolling her eyes, "You're one appointment away at Madam Malkin's from having the best green robes in all of London."

"But why green?" came his protest.

"Because that's the Harpies' color, that's why," Ginny explained, clasping the last possible button that left the rest of his bare chest open to view. "You could still wear this, you know, it's very Lockhart-esque," teased the witch.

Harry drowned her following laughter with a string of lazy kisses. "I'll dress as you want, but you should know I am a shit dancer," he whispered against her lips.

"You'd better start training then," she mocked back. Ginny escaped from his embrace and began organizing the unattended clothes on the floor. She found The Thirteen League's Fundraiser Gala invitation stuffed under a pair of denim and made a mental note to herself to remind Hermione of the date. Each player was allowed two guests and gauging from the boys' interest in the sport, Ginny had initially invited Harry and her brother. But seeing as Ron had already gone on three dates with the keeper of the Chudley Cannons, Evy Horton, she considered her brother more than accounted for and invited to the event. As a result, though, Hermione would have to suffer through a night of quidditch fueled entertainment. Surprisingly, the witch had agreed too and followed it up with something about needing more male company other than Crookshanks.

As she gathered the remaining items, her fingers caught on the letter, which she skimmed over with an uninterested gaze (the owl had obviously delivered someone else's Quidditch post to their address by accident). She crumpled it into an uneven ball and threw it in the wastebasket.

Grabbing a staggering pile of old shirts for wash, Harry saw her walk out of the room, only to hear her frantic footsteps return within a few seconds. He watched her with wide eyes as she retrieved the discarded letter and smoothened it with the palm of her hands on the hardwood floor. Outside the room, lay a heap of forgotten clothes in the middle of the hallway.

"Love from Mafalda," she said, peering at the wizard. He joined her on his knees on the floor.

"Love from Mafalda," cluelessly, he repeated.

"That's how Hermione signs her letters," breathed out the witch. "Mafalda Hopkirk was her-"

"-alias during the War," they finished in unison.

Harry took the letter from his fiancé, reading it over once again. "And I was Barny Weasley for Bill and Fleur's wedding."

"Who's Orville and Wilbur?" asked Ginny, cocking an eyebrow.

"The Wright brothers; they invented the airplane-"

"The muggle flying machine?"

"Yes, something like that," he nodded. "But why would Hermione mention them?"

"They were brothers, Harry?" Ginny prodded, having reached the true meaning of her best friend's words far before the wizard. "She's obviously talking in code, I think we know of two brothers who could have 'flown' recently, don't we?"

His eyes widened again.

"We have to go," said Harry, as he _Accio'd _his wand.

"I'm coming with?"

"It says _bring Gin and tonic_, does it not?"

"And where are we off to exactly?" she questioned with suspicious eyes. Her fingers still found his as they prepared to apparate.

"Malfoy Manor," exhaled Harry, "it's where I mastered the Elder Wand - the first of the three Hallows."

* * *

**Malfoy Manor. Eight Days Remaining.**

The armchair swallowed her. It had three small cushions, two of which were perfectly placed near the small of her back to help her posture and the other two were sitting underneath her arms. The soft silk upholstery tickled her skin every so often and beckoned her to sink into its comforting curves. If Malfoy ever decided to have an auction, she would buy this piece, Hermione decided.

In front of her, lay a second serving of tea for the morning that she nursed and had only sipped twice. She skipped the sugars too, already feeling the burn of her uneasy nerves in the tips of her fingers.

"Miss will stay for lunch, yes?" the house-elf named Elva asked from across the room. She wore two bright mismatched socks on her feet and a pillowcase. But the mark of her freedom was more evident in the proud way in which she stood and the unbending line of her spine that was ramrod straight.

"No, that won't be necessary," said Draco. Back facing Hermione, he watched the Manor's manicured lawns from the balcony of his father's old study.

A disappointed frown crossed Elva's pointy features. Hermione offered the creature a faint smile and returned to her labyrinthine thoughts. After crash landing in the Malfoy parlor, they had been swamped by an army of elves who had gushed about Draco's return and remained extremely shy around the witch.

They were free creatures, of course. As were all the other elves in London. Hermione had made sure of that after the war. Her new legislation focused on freeing those trapped in servitude across Europe, but as in London, her department still struggled to find housing for the newly freed citizens across France and Belgium.

"Follow me," Malfoy had remarked with an uninterested scowl after noting her down-hearted grimace. She had grumbled but abided.

He had led her down a series of confusing hallways - full of twists and turns that would section off to different wings and hidden chambers. The Manor had changed from seven years ago when Hermione had visited with the DA and the Ministry for their quest to expunge all questionable residences of Dark magic.

As soon as her cheek has slapped across the cold marble floor and she had realized that she was at Malfoy's ancestral home, Hermione had promised to herself that she would not think of Bellatrix's torturous sadism - which proved harder than usual as they were specifically looking for her husband. The scar on her arm itched more than usual.

So instead, she focused on the renovated walls. The first hallway had been long and serpentine - consisting of pale green panels and paintings of grass fields that had reflected the glowing sun and lightened the atmosphere. The doors had been tall, a darker shade of emerald with gold knobs and ornate, snake-like patterns. The second hallway had carried hints of the old Manor - with its almost black-violet wallpaper and gas-lit lamps. Each grey frame in the darkened corridor had held a different oil painting of the same muse - a purple orchid against a blackened background. The whole house was a temple for interior designing, but despite its modernistic touches, the witch could not look past the horrid atrocities it had housed only a few years prior. At least the air did not make her shudder any longer.

She had walked silently behind Malfoy - despising the way her heels clicked against the black marble - until he had stopped at the end of the fourth hallway and had swung the door open to reveal a curved staircase that led to a rather pretentious study with telescopes, a small library, and a potions work station.

"We need to inform Potter," Malfoy had mumbled, walking behind the mammoth desk to collect parchment and a quill. His grey eyes were distracted and lost.

"I'll send a Patronus," Hermione had offered.

"No, use Hesper. It'll be faster and discrete."

And so, she had used the ravenous owl to send the mail to Harry. The bird had looked just as bored as she looked suspicious. "Are you sure he'll deliver the mail?" she had asked as the owl had departed from the balcony.

"Yes, _she_ will," had been his short response.

He had not met her gaze since. A distracting wisp of his blond hair swept down on his forehead, but he didn't seem to notice. Hermione felt the indescribable, treacherous urge to do _something. _She wasn't quite sure what that _something _was, but for the love of Godric, she would not stand, walk into his minty, dark aura and move that sodding bit of hair away. No, she was a respectable witch, with an Order of Merlin, for heaven's sake.

But distrusting herself, she crossed her ankles and cleared her throat a little too audibly. Godfuckingdamnit, she needed to speak with Ginny soon. The redhead would surely knock some sense into her, and she needed a drink or twenty.

Draco continued staring at the lawn, unaware of his company's tumultuous thoughts.

"Perhaps the Dutch DMLE could use Veritaserum on Irma," she suggested. His gaze did not flicker away from the window.

"Or perhaps we should have her transferred to the English Ministry, and we could continue the interrogation here," Hermione went on. "She knows about the brothers, what they are up to, everything. That has to be enough reason for her transfer here."

Finally, the wizard turned around, rolled up the sleeves of his navy silk shirt up to his elbows so that his Dark Mark glowered at Hermione, and pressed his eyelids close as his jaw tensed.

"They already used it on her when she first reported the sighting," said Draco, keeping his gaze downcast.

"She's been Obliviated then," Hermione thought out loud, leaning forward in the armchair.

He faintly nodded, unconvinced and his breathing evened as he contemplated sharing his theory with the witch. "It's something more than that, I think."

"Oh?"

"The Dark Lo- Voldemort used Legilimency as a form of torture-"

"Yes, I'm aware," interrupted Hermione with an impatient tone. A smile tugged at the corner of Draco's mouth as she fell silent. _Always the swot. _

"Sorry," she murmured, tucking her blooming hair behind her ear. He swallowed, brushing away the ache to start bantering with her again.

"All the Death Eaters picked up Occlumency rather quickly as a result. But he hated that, banned it at meetings even. No one could protect themselves. If the Snatchers hadn't captured enough muggles for the day, he would take his time with someone from his own ranks."

Hermione shuddered at the thought and suddenly the palatial study seemed to develop too many dark corners and unknown shadows.

"It was Severus' idea. He would occlude my mother, my mother would occlude me, and I would occlude him. Voldemort could never trace the mental barriers - the spell was nonverbal and undistinguishable. To him, we all seemed like a blank slate. My father found out and shared it with the others."

Draco paused.

"You think they have occluded Irma?" Hermione suggested.

Shrugging his tall shoulders, the wizard finally made his way away from the desk and towards the armchair opposite the witch. "She doesn't seem to know what her own mind is hiding."

There was a stretched silence as Hermione considered his idea. Realizing after a few minutes that there was no escaping the deafening gap, she blurted out the first words that came to her mind. "When did you learn Occlumency?"

His head snapped up. Finally, she could see the dark storms he was hiding in his grey eyes. "After fifth year," he answered. Following a short, un-humored chuckle, he added, "After your stint at the Department of Mysteries and my father's arrest."

She nodded and attended to her tea (which was now growing cold).

"How come you never picked it up, Granger?"

"There was never a need," she countered. That and the fact that she had tried it once in the Forest of Dean with Harry and her attempt had been as far away from successful as possible. She had decided then that she would just _Bombarda _the shit out of anyone who tried Legilimency on her. And so, Hermione had spent a few days practicing a nonverbal, wandless Exploding Charm that she now kept in her back pocket for unsuspecting attacks.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" Draco smirked. Her cheeks flamed a violent hue of cherry and she gritted her teeth. "Hermione Granger has no need for protection? Is that why you live in the second most guarded place in the country?"

"Great," she huffed, rolling her eyes, "We're back to that, again. No, I really don't need it. Plus, that's not a valid argument. Do you suppose all of the goblins at Gringotts know Legilimency?"

Draco quirked a bemused eyebrow and leaned forward. "Do you really think Gringotts is the most protected place?"

Now it was her time to scowl as she averted his patronizing gaze. _What an absolute git._

"You're full of surprises today, honestly," commented the blond before she could reply. He chuckled to himself, "I mean, you robbed that bank yourself."

With a crack of apparition, Elva reappeared and squealed, "Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley are in the parlor, sir."

"Thank you, Elva," he said, rising to his feet. "Escort them here."

And though his eyes never found their way back to her, she found herself fidgeting under the shadow of his gaze. Their joust was over before it could have grown into a real flame, but the witch's stomach dropped as she missed the heat. The bead of sweat that was resting on the back of her ear rolled to the base of her neck and melted into her shirt's fabric. It was the last thing on Draco's mind as he opened the door to the study and welcomed more of his past enemies into the burrows of his ancestral home.

* * *

Harry and Draco worked at the desk. There were several dog-eared books that lay open. Harry's cup of tea held down one edge of the map of Europe while Draco's glass of scotch weighed down the other end. Still, the corners curled inwards and threatened to topple over their drinks. On instinct, the Slytherin rested his palm on the paper, weighing it down even more, as he studied the potential paths the brothers could have taken. From the far east end of the room, Hermione watched as the same wisp of his hair from earlier broke away from the rest and swept across his forehead. That was the only bit of him that was soft. His eyes, the way his cheekbones slanted into his tensed jaw, and the stressed veins of his forearms spoke more of his tension than the wizard let on. Draco said something to Harry, who nodded in agreement and sipped his drink with a sigh. The Malfoy ring was back on his finger and she observed as he fidgeted it from one finger to another. Next to her, Ginny (who was reading Irma's testimony aloud) stopped mid-sentence - her jaw slackened, and she stared blankly at her friend.

"What?" whispered Hermione. Still, the redhead didn't respond but her eyes twinkled.

"What?" the brunette repeated. Ginny slipped closer to her and shut the file in her hands.

Hermione gulped.

_Fuck. _

Ginny pronounced her next words after a deliberate pause and in such a nuanced murmur as if to keep her voice from reaching the very parchment in front of them. "Tell me it's not true."

"What?" came the final protest. Her eyes were ready to jump out of their pockets and her throat had dried. Again, Hermione swallowed to keep the bile from rising.

The redhead scrunched her face and tisked quietly. "Stop saying '_what_,' first of all," then after a beat, she added, "Second, tell me that I didn't just catch you gawking at Malfoy."

"I wasn't _gawking_ at hi-"

"_Hermione._" Ginny was shaking her head with disbelief.

"I wasn't gawking."

"How long?"

"Huh?"

"How long have you been 'not gawking' at him for?"

A deafening silence filled the space between the two friends. Before she could answer, Harry's footsteps neared their table and Hermione refocused on the case file in front of her. She read the first line three times before huffing out in frustration. Harry served her an odd look.

"Theo is making his way to Amsterdam again. Malfoy and I will be meeting with Kingsley," he announced. Turning to his fiancé, he said, "You and Hermione should go over the files and the books. There has to be something we missed, a hiding place, an address, a name, _something_."

"Correction!" quipped Ginny, rising from her place beside Hermione and walking over to stand by the raven-haired man. She laced her fingers through his. "We'll go to Kingsley. Let these two mull over the boring bits."

"Uh...Gin, actually, Malf-" Harry began.

"What the fuck are you getting at Weasellete?"

"Oh, come off your high horse, will you?" the witch scolded, turning away from her intended to face the seething blond. "All of you know that as of this morning, this case has become the most important thing to come by the DMLE in _ages_." She raised her eyebrow at the two men, challenging them without a shadow of a doubt. "How are you going to keep Fungbury's greedy paws off this, huh? He'll whisk this all away from you lot before you can say Morgana."

The witch was all fire and fury. She didn't skip a beat in proposing her masterplan. "Harry and I will go and meet with Kingsley." Ginny looked him straight in the eye, and repeated, "I am the most persuasive, I will come with you."

As soon as she could sense Harry considering the idea, the witch turned to Malfoy and added, "Also, Hermione only has like, what, twenty-"

"Nineteen," Hermione offered dutifully.

"- only nineteen books from the school," as she said this, Ginny glanced around the room. "But doesn't this place have a monumental library?"

The tension on Draco's jaw, if it was even possible, worsened. His palms came in firm contact with the desk and the map atop as he leaned in towards the redhead. Though there were three Gryffindors in the room, it was the Slytherin who watched the woman with feral eyes and spoke his words in an almost lion-like snarl. "I am the lead on searching for the brothers, Weasley. I will go with Potter. Or you can come with me and Potter can stay with Granger. On that account, however, my home is not open for sightseeing."

"Even if we catch Rabastan and Rodolphus," pushed Ginny, "the curse on the school is getting stronger. It needs to be resolved, the school needs to reopen, and right now, I don't see any way of getting that done except for scourging through as many texts as possible. But since you're the lead Auror on this, I'm sure you've already figured that one out for yourself, right?"

An unamused smirk played on his mouth. "I'm not arguing this," said Draco.

He walked around the desk and gulped back the last of his drink. "Ready, Potter?"

Hermione watched as Harry kept his skeptical gaze on Ginny, trying to read her erratic behavior. When he didn't move from his place, Draco called again, with a raised eyebrow.

Instead of moving towards the blond wizard, Harry went and stood by Ginny. "Actually, Malfoy, I have to agree with Ginny. She's got a better chance at convincing Fungbury and Kingsley than the two of us."

Ginny beamed at him as he pushed his glasses back on his nose. With a tentative smile, he added, "Plus, it's best you stay out of Fungbury's sight for a bit, he may try to use your past to rob us of this case."

"Are you really that thick? You think that if I don't show my face around the Ministry, they'll just forget that I work there? And d'you know what, Potter, let him bring up my past. I want to see him try."

Malfoy waited for a response, his eyes darting from Harry to Ginny to Harry again. The two of them stood in stubborn silence. Finally, the blond turned to the woman who had already drawn a book from her bag and was cross-referencing a page from the case files. He tisked with annoyance. Her eyes dragged away from the papers lazily and found his.

"Go on," he challenged. "I take it you have something to add in agreement with these two."

Hermione considered the thought of Malfoy staying with her in the confines of a library and felt her pulse rise, steadfast. But then she thought of the thousand texts waiting to be combed through, sitting patiently, deep behind the walls of the Manor, and her heartbeat furiously with excitement.

"You should go," she offered at last. "The elves will show me to the library. I can manage on my own."

All three of them stared at her, their faces split with dual emotions - Malfoy appeared confused and shocked. There were lines of confusion on Ginny's forehead as well, but she hid her frustration well - save for the telling downward turn of her mouth. Harry's expression kept changing from disbelief to great skepticism every second.

"No," they harmonized together, all for very different reasons.

Ginny shook her head, tugged at Harry's hand, and shoved past Malfoy.

"That's it," announced the witch. "We're leaving - this has been discussed for far too long already."

Draco was about to argue but Harry reached forward and placed a well-meaning hand on his shoulder - extending a rare olive branch of camaraderie. "You know, Malfoy, you don't have to fight every fight from the frontlines, or go into every battle with wands blazing-"

"You're saying this as you run off-"

"The point is the Lestranges are hiding behind bushes and working under the currents. Let us handle the Ministry's red tape. You and Hermione can get a lot more done from behind the scenes."

The scowl on Malfoy's face remained untouched but his gaze softened. For a moment, his shoulder slackened, and Harry let his hand slip away, knowing well enough that the job had been done.

"I don't like this, Potter."

"And yet you know I'm right."

Again, Ginny tugged at Harry's wrist and the pair exited through the black paneled door. With his back facing Hermione, Draco stood disgruntled and considered running out to yell at the Weaslette one more time. Something rooted his feet into the dusty floors and so he glanced past his father's grand desk, past the exquisite ornate glass windows, and at the endless fields of grass that made up the estate. Far off in the distance, he could see the faint outline of the English hills where Narcissa would take him for picnics during his youth. Her murderers were out there, wandering about those very hills, possibly. But here he was. The heir of the greatest fortune in magical London, yet still the most unfortunate of all. He should have gone after the brothers that first day when Granger had stopped him. Yes, it would have cost him the last slither of his family's reputation that his parents had valued more than their lives. And yes, he would have been impulsive but at least his guilt wouldn't have ballooned tenfold as it had in the past week. Though his own feet refused to move, the witch who had watched everything silently from the corner sprang up with horror-filled eyes and scuttled past him in a hurry. His eyes lifted to find the fresh flowers as the sweet scent of roses infiltrated his senses, but he realized his mistake as soon as she closed the door behind her. After fifteen heartbeats, even her scent had left the room and he was left alone. More alone than he had felt in a while.

* * *

"Gin, hold on, wait!" yelled Hermione, struggling to jog with her pointed heels. One thing was certain when she had picked out her footwear in the morning, she had not anticipated as much running for the day. The pair turned their heads and stopped mid-stride. Ginny and Harry already had the Floo powder in the fists and were a foot away from the palatial fireplace. The witch came to a hurdling stop in front of her friends, placing a hand over her chest to catch her breath as she rested the other on her hip. The ceiling of the parlor rose high above their heads.

"Have you told the Headmistress?" Hermione questioned. Her infamous wrath was simmering well under the surface, but it peaked enough for Harry to recognize it.

Harry scoffed. "First, we need to find out if the case is still ours."

"Harry…"

"Yes?"

"No matter who keeps the case, I think we should discuss some things with Professor McGonagall."

"Like what exactly?"

"Like…" Hermione considered her words carefully for a second before murmuring them. The cold marble floor echoed them louder than she would have liked. "...like postponing the school's opening."

At that, Harry grimaced. Ginny agreed with a short nod.

"Before tomorrow," he said. "I'll talk to her before tomorrow. Just give me till then."

With that, he stepped into the fireplace, keeping his eyes on the ashes below his feet from previous users.

Ginny turned away from him and frowned at the brunette. As she took a step forward, the witch clenched the Floo powder tightly in one of her fists as she reached out her hand and touched Hermione's arm. "Almost forgot to remind you, the Gala's next week. Do you have something green?-"

Harry shuffled his feet. Waiting. "-anyways, we'll talk details later."

She gave a final squeeze of her hand and smiled to say goodbye. But something stopped Ginny for an instant.

"Oh and, try to keep the 'not gawking' to a minimum, yeah?" she quipped with a whisper. And with a swift heel turn, her leather boots stepped into the fireplace beside the wizard. Before Hermione could devise a clever retort, the green smoke enveloped their figures and whisked them away. She knew that Ginny wouldn't own up to it in a million years, but something led her to believe that her best friend had left her alone with Draco on purpose.

* * *

**Apologies for the delay in uploading this chapter, but I'm gonna try and stay on top of things this time around. See ya in two weeks!**

**Much love to everyone during these times,**

**~Kore.**


	9. Chapter 9

**hello again! here's chapter nine, let me know what you think! Your favs, follows and reviews keep me motivated:) **

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Pride, Prejudice and Death Eaters**

**Malfoy Manor. Eight Days Remaining.**

"So," began Hermione, letting her fingers brush against the oaken desk. It was just the three of them again - her, Malfoy, and the silence. "The library-"

Draco was, for a lack of better words, looking for a fight. Anything to get his mind off of the Lestranges, Weasellete, and her wet blanket of a man. He knew the brunette would provide for just the appropriate amount of cathartic sparring. If he could just find the right nerve to pinch. There was, of course, the risk of letting her get under his skin, and it was a very real risk at that. The swot seemed to manage it better than Theo and Penelope combined. But he needed the fix, despite the probable..._hazards_. The fight ebbed and itched, crawling under his porcelain skin.

"Absolutely not, Granger." _A robust jab_.

"Fine." She glared at him. "It's not like I want to visit the library for any personal gain-" a small lie in the grand scheme of things - "but alright, prioritize your pride over everything else." _There she goes, just like he knew she would. _

She turned away from him, neither facing the other. But the shape of his back, defined through the snug fit of his navy shirt, was burned behind her eyes. _Focus._

"My pride?" he challenged, sparing her a glance over his shoulders.

"Yes, your pride."

"Says the woman demanding her way around someone else's house." She could_ hear_ his smirk.

She glared again, not at anything in particular. Especially not at him - she wouldn't give him that much attention, not when he didn't even have the courtesy to face her. She targeted the flickering candlelight instead, shooting daggers into the strange shadows that were cast onto the stonewalls. Draco sipped his firewhiskey and lit a cigarette. Then, as if per habit, he itched the fading tattoo on his forearm and sighed.

"I'm not proud, Malfoy," Hermione gritted, grounding her heel into the floor.

"Hmm, there are worse vices, I suppose."

"Smoking, for one."

His short chuckle echoed. Of all his crimes, Draco wouldn't have thought in a hundred lifetimes that the witch would have picked smoking as his greatest sin. Waving the husky smoke from his vision, the wizard finally turned around. His eyes struggled to stay on the waves of her fishtail braid.

"I meant wrath, envy, greed..." Despite all his efforts, Draco's voice dropped to a low murmur, following the downward spiral of his gaze. If this was the risk he was taking, sparring with Hermione Granger, he rather liked the taste of it. He traced her curves, just barely hidden under the silk of her blouse as the afternoon sun filtered through the window and made the material transparent enough. She had a darker bra on, one that matched her skirt and Draco didn't even resist the urge to follow the dip in her waist at her lower back that led him to her hips. "...and lust."

When she didn't turn to face him, he continued. "They're all rooted in pride ultimately, you know."

"All except lust, yes. I have read Waffling's works, Malfoy."

"Wrong again, Granger. Lust has everything to do with pride. But what would Waffling know about that?" A short pause, and then he began again. "And what would you?" _Another bait, a dangerous one. _

Despite a telling blush, she persisted. "I'm well acquainted, thanks." _Yet, hooked again. _

"With someone like Weasley? I highly doubt that."

"There are more important things in a relationship than lust, Malfoy - emotions you could never understand."

"Ahh, yes. The eighth sin - worst of them all, I must add." He raised an eyebrow, as a smirk danced on his lips. "Tell me then Granger, did you love Weasley?" He drew the word out as if to mock her.

"How dare you?" she fired back, turning to reveal the deep scowl that had settled on her brows.

"Is it wrong to ask a woman if she loved her ex-fiance?"

"Ron and I were never engaged-"

"But the papers-"

"The papers lie...you, of all people, should know that."

"Fine, then. Is it wrong to ask a woman if she loved her ex-boyfriend?" He spat the last word out.

"It is wrong when your insinuation is that I didn't."

"My insinuation?" His chuckle, like his eyes, was dark. "That's a funny thing to call the truth."

"Oh, sod off. What do you know about love, anyway?"

That shut him up. And there it was, the enormity of the risks he was taking. Though the itch had quieted, he could feel a darker frustration brewing.

"It's not a sin to love, nor is it a vice," huffed Hermione.

Draco threw the morning paper towards her, too caught up in his own quagmire."I'm sure Ms. Horton would agree with you."

On the front page was a picture of Ron with a green-eyed girl as they entered a pub, hand-in-hand. The headline read, "_Weasley's found a Keeper!" _

The man on the newspaper was a reflection of the Ron she had grown up with. If a stranger were to see him - with his eyes beaming and catching the spark of the streetlight as he ushered the girl into the establishment, the way his hand fit around her waist and squeezed with reassurance, and the lightness of his laughter as it spilled into her neck - they certainly wouldn't credit him with having fought in a war, not even a decade before. Perhaps Evy Horton had expunged those horrors from his ledger entirely.

She swallowed the dread of loneliness as it began to crawl up her throat like bile.

She never missed Ron. Not in the romantic sense, at least. Not anymore. She did miss being someone's home. And she missed something she didn't know she could miss - a feeling she had yet to experience, but one that everyone around her seemed to be blessed with: Hermione longed to look into someone's eyes, even if just for an instant, and to forget about the bloodshed, the murders, the torture. The War.

When her heart clenched as she looked at the picture, Hermione knew that it could have been any couple, drunkenly stumbling into any pub and she would have envied them.

Draco smothered his cigarette in the ashtray, snuffing out her pitiful tangents.

"You know there is actual work to be done, right?" snapped Hermione. Mumbling, she added, "Even if you won't let us use your library."

"Come on, now. If you're going to deflect, at least bait me with something more enticing."

She narrowed her eyes, locking onto his quicksilver gaze. "How's this for something more enticing - muggles scientists, when they conduct chemical reactions, use enzymes as catalysts. If the Lestranges are brewing Felix Felicius under such a short time, they'll need a stabilizing ingredient that works as a catalyst-"

"-Brewing Felix Felicius under normal circumstances is dangerous, if the Lestranges wanted to escape and live, they wouldn't meddle with the recipe."

"Unless something worthwhile is motivating them."

He considered her words. It was possible, especially since Voldemort had tasked Snape with experimenting with potions on muggle subjects. The Slytherin Headmaster had excused himself from the task, citing his position at the school as too important and time-consuming to render any useful results in potioneering endeavors. The Carrows had happily accepted the assignment and tormented many suspected members of the Order, Longbottom included. Their achievements were limited but-

"African sea salt," said Draco. "The Carrows used it frequently to hasten the brewing time of Veritaserum. Instead of the usual twenty-eight days, it only took them seven at the most. But the end result was not perfect, Granger. Partly the reason why so many Gryffindors were able to lie under its effects though they were dosed and questioned almost every week."

She watched him with great skepticism. There were a few times when Hermione found their pasts to be so antithetical that even working together seemed performative, let alone being cordial. His honesty made up for only so much suffering. "What was the other reason?"

She folded her hands across her chest, and when he didn't answer, Hermione took a step towards him. "What was the other reason that protected the Gryffindors against the effects of Veritaserum?"

Perhaps she expected a dramatic answer, thought Draco. Something alluding to Gryffindor bravery or righteousness. But the truth was drier than her glare. "The Carrows were shit at potions, Granger. That's the other reason."

She tisked, unsatisfied with his response. "But if the salt cuts brewing time by a third - that means the brothers might have liquid luck ready in about two months."

"It's a very unlikely possibility-"

"But a possibility nonetheless."

She observed his breathing as he pondered upon her theory once again until the wizard finally nodded. He stalked to potioneering station at the far end of the study and began rummaging through the drawers. There were a few scraps of paper in his hand by the time he was done. He sifted through them, barely gleaning the words before tossing aside the chits. Hermione stood helpless in the middle of the floor, her heels digging into the ancient and dusty Persian carpet. At last, his head snapped up and he breathed out a sigh with closed eyes that sounded something like "_Malta."_

The witch cleared her throat, hoping that Malfoy would remember that she was still in the room.

"What time is it, Granger?" His eyes were still pressed close and he was rubbing his right temple with an agitated scowl.

"Three in the afternoon," she responded.

"Right," he exhaled. "Should we pick up tomorrow then?"

Her forehead creased with a frown as Hermione narrowed her eyes yet again. "You're asking to stop working and waste a perfectly good afternoon?"

"I'm asking you to go home, Granger."

He walked over to the fireplace and summoned Floo powder, already having collected her belongings. He held it out for her, keeping his mouth pressed in a stern line as his slate eyes darkened considerably.

"What's in Malta?"

"Hmm?" His hands pushed her bag and the Floo bowl towards her, beckoning her towards the fireplace.

"You just said Malta, Malfoy."

"You're hearing things."

Hermione let a mirthless laugh escape her lips and threw his words back at the blond. "If you're going to deflect, bait me with something more enticing."

Draco blinked - once, because he understood her clever little wordplay and his scowl twisted, ever so slightly to a secret smirk. He should have calculated these _risks_ more carefully. And then he blinked once more, because he knew she wasn't going anywhere.

"My father imported African sea salt from Malta - initially, he provided that and a few other...necessities as one of the Governors of the school. The Carrows used the same contact. Their product is in the purest form, it's very potent. If the brothers needed it, they must have met with my father's supplier."

"I can have Harry get us an international Portkey. The journey can be very tiring-

"Granger."

Under the study's dark corners, her pupils were dilated, soaking away her honey brown depths like a hungry black sponge. But they were still wide enough to question him without saying a single word.

"I'll finish this before tomorrow. Go home. Rest."

His voice began with a commanding air but almost melted into a plea towards the end. She stepped into his space in a confident stride, and he noticed how her honey depths returned when she entered the light. Hermione grasped her belongings swiftly but made no efforts to leave. "You don't know me well, Malfoy. It's going to take a lot more than begging and pleading to get me off your back. So, let's hurry this up, alright?"

Draco almost wished he could taste her words as they tumbled out. If he took even half a step forward, her breath would mingle with his, just like it had while she was bleeding away at the Hogwarts library. And then he could taste her spite, her frustration, and the sweet, dagger-like sharpness with which she always regarded him. Fierce little thing she was, a muggleborn challenging a pureblood heir in his own home. He could practically hear his ancestors gasping in their lonely catacombs, but he knew there was a reason why their bones and their outdated ideals were buried deep, out of mind and out of sight.

And maybe, after all, he _was_ proud, because not even Salazar could stop him from taking that half step into her aura.

"Alright," he said, calculating the price of her accompaniment. "But don't tell me I didn't warn you, witch."

Her breath hitched. Something about _more than you can chew_ floated in the barracks of her mind, but Hermione brushed it away. Her blush crept forward, the heat rose from her clavicles to her neck, painted her cheeks, and rested on her forehead - all the while, following the track _his_ eyes traced. But her balance, it tipped back, sinking to the soles of her feet. _Steel yourself. _She couldn't - wouldn't - let him see how he affected her. Fighting the urge to blink until her eyes stung with dryness, she kept her unwavering gaze on him.

Malfoy's smug smirk only added fuel to her fire as he stepped away from her and sent everything in the room packing with a flick of his wrist. The room looked untouched within a few minutes, as if no occupants had ever entered it since the morning. Running his long fingers through his blond strands, Draco didn't look up as he lit another cigarette.

"This contact, he wears his Dark Mark without remorse. Are you positive you want to join?"

Hermione nodded in response. He doused the cigarette in his glass with the remaining scotch after only a few drags.

"Malta's an hour ahead," said Draco, as he moved towards the door and Hermione followed. "The lounge fireplace has a connection to the Malfoy property in Palermo. We can apparate from there."

* * *

**Palermo, Italy.**

From the looks of it, the Palermo estate was no small feat. The stone towers overlooked a quaint private beach with milk rocks that glimmered in the sunshine. The walls were bare and thin cotton sheets were drawn onto the furniture to protect it from the accumulating dust. As at the Manor, several wings branched beyond sight and led to unknown wonders - only a few oil-lit lamps flickered in the distance to mark their existence. Hermione raked her mind and swept through her mental catalog of properties listed under the Malfoy name, and yet she couldn't remember any mention of any estates this Far East. Several years ago, when the ministry had combed through dark artifacts in the homes of ex-Death Eaters, an extensive list had graced her desk with declared property listings and values for each suspected family. She remembered sending Neville and Luna to France to survey the Greengrass lot and the Chateau that had been listed under Narcissa's name. They had even visited a Yaxley cottage in the Alps from where several unsuccessful time-turner prototypes had been confiscated, but still, Hermione couldn't recollect any pure blood properties as far out as Sicily.

As Malfoy turned the corner into the open courtyard and she followed quickly behind, Hermione cast a quick transfiguration spell at her feet. In the flats, she felt the pressure points on her heels relax. Draco smiled when the sharp raps of her heels silenced at once after listening to their echoes all morning.

"It's beautiful," he heard her say. It wasn't exactly, though. Nature had overtaken, as it usually did when it was left untouched for long. The cabbage roses had invaded into the bleeding hearts and serpentine ivy canopied across the yard, crawling across the stones and retelling an ancient tale. It wasn't conventionally a gardener's paradise, but it was something. Perhaps it was beautiful, surmised Draco.

"Has it been in your family for long?" Her eyes were dilating again, admiring the crumbling archway and dancing curiously.

"Yes."

"It isn't listed under the ministry records-"

"The apariation wards end just outside of here." He was cold again. Gone was the Draco with the teasing spark in his eyes. This was the man with coal grey orbs, the man who was as moody as he was secretive. "Granger," that brought her attention back. "I need you to be on top of your game."

When Hermione lifted an offended eyebrow, something flickered past his pupils. An emotion she couldn't quite name. The side of his mouth twisted into a bitter snarl. "When we get to Malta, I'll need you to listen."

Doubt. Mistrust, even. Yes, that was the emotion, Hermione was almost positive.

She nodded once but pressed her lips firmly to show her reluctance. "I know how to take care of myself, Malfoy."

Although he had already his back to her, making it hard to tell if he felt anything at all, Hermione was positive that she had heard his unamused chuckle.

When they aparated, she put her hand on top of his, just barely letting her palm brush the rough edges of his knuckles. His indifference remained untouched and she, too, wished to feel anything but the jolt of electricity that captured her body at that slight contact.

* * *

**Malta.**

Malta was, surprisingly, fair. The afternoon glare was on its way to sundown and the cobbled streets were just beginning to show the traces of their nightlife.

Hermione felt the sea before she laid eyes on it. Her fish braid began to balloon, frizzing up and coming undone like a raging monster. Her skin began to prickle with a light sweat under the salty air and she felt her stomach roll with hungry as they passed the food stalls serving all varieties of fish. Damn Malfoy for making her skip meals. He walked in front, navigating through the throngs of tourists as if he ventured down those very streets for a stroll every evening. His platinum blond hair was no different than hers - just a touch tamer - but still reacting wildly to the humid air and straying down to his forehead in a clean sweep. He pushed it back with a frustrated sigh and Hermione gulped as his Dark Mark peaked through. Right. She was walking into his territory now.

"Malfoy," she called, as a man pushed past her and uttered an insincere apology in a foreign accent.

Draco didn't seem to notice her, for he kept on marching forward, only darting glances at her, beckoning her to hurry.

"Malfoy," she called again, slipping her cold fingers around his forearm and pulling him back. He flinched but something softened behind his distracted gaze.

"Who, exactly, is this supplier?"

An understanding settled amidst the pair. She wasn't just asking because she was curious - although Hermione wouldn't deny that she was dying to know of this supposed contact who had escaped the Ministry's omnipresent eyes. The tense lines that formed on the edge of her eyes betrayed her resolution to stay unaffected and Draco read her reluctance instantly. "A distant relative of the Puceys," answered the blond, burying his own qualms. "I haven't had much contact personally."

Hermione gulped in response as she swallowed the last of her fears. For the first time, she could feel his warmth and linger in his scent and look into his depths without feeling like he was hiding something. For the first time, Hermione felt like if she asked him something - anything - in that moment, he'd answer her. Instead, he hauled the truth from her. Prying it from somewhere where she didn't even know she hid it.

"Are you scared, Granger?" It wasn't a challenge. It wasn't reassuring, either.

The truth? Well, she was fucking terrified. After spending eight years dreaming of ways in which she might come face to face with the barbarism of the old world, she was willingly entering the den of an unknown Death Eater supplier, with the most antagonized Slytherin from their year. And that too, days after she was attacked for her blood status. So yes, she was a breath away from scared. But Hermione wasn't going to confide in him. Not yet, and most definitely not on a crowded street in an unfamiliar city. The silence seemed to serve as an adequate response because he smiled at her and she could swear on the heavens above his eyes lightened by at least two shades.

"If it makes you feel any better," he offered, "I'm shitting my pants."

Hermione bit on her tongue, trying to contain the nervous giggle that spilled out. Thankfully, her haggard curls hid her amusement well as they fell on her face. Though his wasn't a rare smile - he resorted to a twisted version of it that everyone recognized as his trademark smirk - there was something about the way in which he flirted with humor. It was absolutely English, the brunette decided. How he didn't have a barking laugh or and never snorted. How he made quick, dry remarks that left the recipient speechless. But that smile. The innocent one, he saved for when he was truly warmed, belonged on the covers of Witch Weekly and the likes. Not that they would ever do a feature on an ex-Death Eater. Still, Hermione knew countless single witches who would throw themselves at men with an inclination towards dark magic.

Draco turned briskly and began to walk again. They passed three blocks, brimming with shops and people but Malfoy kept her at his side, matching her shorter strides by slowing his pace. It wasn't Harry giving her a pep talk or Ron pulling her in for a hug that could cure all ailments, but it was Draco Malfoy adjusting his own ways to provide her with whatever little comfort he could manage. And in that moment, it was enough.

Soon the streets began to darken as fewer and fewer people passed Hermione, and the exterior infrastructure slipped to an old medieval style that she had learned to recognize as a mark of wizarding territory. Confirming her suspicion, Draco pulled his wand and cast a Disillusionment Charm.

When they reached the crossing of one Pevel Street and Ambrosia Avenue, Draco nodded towards a moldy looking pub at the corner. The wizard let out a grunt of disapproval when the heavy stench of mildew and Stinksap infiltrated the air as a drunken patron stumbled from within, belched at no one in particular, and tottered about the pathway with the balancing ability of a confounded hippogriff. Then, upon spotting his pedestrian company, he aparated away instantly, taking away the sound of his dry retching.

Draco shot her a perplexing look, almost as if he was apologizing. He opened the door to the Inn and stepped aside for her to enter before him. Just as Hermione was about to pass a pissy comment about the state of the establishment, his voice whispered in her ear.

"Wait by the bar, order a Hag's Pint but don't drink it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she disgruntled but he was already gone. The absence of his hand on the small of her back came unwelcomed and left her rather surprised. _Sly bugger, that man. _

The barkeep was a disinterested elf. And probably blind, if Hermione had to guess. Under the grim, yellow light, he dropped three glasses and mumbled a few curses before even starting on her order. Judging by the sway of his floppy ears and the tune he lazily hummed, Hermione reconsidered her conclusion. Maybe the elf was just drunk. Before he slid the moss-colored beverage to where she stood, he sipped the drink and gagged severely.

He caught her eye, set the sloshing glass in front of her and growled out, "Three sickles."

Malfoy's emerald signet ring made hard contact with the countertop just as she reached for her purse. When he withdrew his hand, five sickles lay next to the drink. The elf muttered something incoherent, but Hermione missed his snarky response as the blond laced his fingers around her wrist and pulled her towards the door.

"I can pay for my own drinks, Malfoy."

The dark mask he had armored around himself cracked for an instant as he smirked at her knowingly. "No need to get your knickers in a knot, Granger. Three sickle drinks aren't really drinks, are they?"

She huffed as he opened the door again, and just as he had when they had entered, Draco whispered against her ear as she stepped out. "Believe me, witch, you'll _know_ when I buy you a proper drink."

Draco felt her stiffen though she had already advanced a few feet. Hermione held her breath, choosing to ignore his suggestive remark. She stalked away from the sickening pub and turned around to face him once the place and its wretched smell were on the street behind them.

"So?" she said, quirking an eyebrow, "What was all that about?"

He pulled a key from his pocket and held it out for her to see. "I needed to collect the Portkey that'll lead us to the contact."

Hermione stifled the groan that lurched forward from the pits of her belly. Another Portkey. Another nauseating twirl-fest, and that too, on an empty stomach. For a second, she considered the consequences of vomiting on Draco Malfoy. Perhaps he would laugh in her face or maybe he'd stay quiet but bring it up later in front of others to embarrass her. He would definitely hex her. Maybe she ought to cast shield charms just before the Portkey gets activated-

"Granger?"

Her eyes snapped up to meet his.

"You look green," was all he said. Concern flashed across his slate eyes, but Draco had resorted to his mask once more.

"I'm fine," replied Hermione, wiping the tendrils of sweat that had developed on her forehead. "Let's just get this over with."

* * *

The first thought that drifted through the post-Portkey fog was that Malfoy hadn't hexed her away to bits. And she wasn't lying face down in an undignified way on anyone's floor. As the spinning surroundings mellowed and settled, she felt the grating texture of sand beneath her shoes and she reached for her fishtail on instinct to free it from the tight binds. If they were on a beach, it was going to be pointless to keep her hair chained. Beside her, Malfoy seemed to have found something funny but kept it well hidden on his firmly pressed lips. He titled his chin forward, urging her to take in the rest of the view.

_I have seen the sea before…_

But she hadn't seen it like this. Between her and the water - where she had expected sun-roasted sand, bikini-clad women, children playing with shells, and hell, even people skinny dipping - was none of that. The blue tides were far, almost half a mile from where they stood. And in that space, there were about fifty boxes - drawn and demarcated in the sand. _Salt pans. _The undulating yellow ledges and the contrasting blues of the sea that produced the white salts made for an otherworldly sight. Hermione heard herself sigh. And from behind them, she heard approaching footsteps.

"A Malfoy?" a gruff voice sounded, just as the pair turned. "It's been almost a decade," said the man.

He was a well-statured man, shorter than Draco but taller than Harry - with leathery skin and unkept salt-pepper hair. His eyes were ocean-blue and dancing between Hermione and Draco. The cotton from his shirt was torn in places and his shoes were stained with salty patches. The man looked..._muggle. _

"My father did business with you before."

"Yes," the man nodded. "Some business that was."

There was silence as Draco studied the man who spoke again after a beat. "And now you're here. For business?"

"Not exactly."

The change on the man's face was extreme. "Then I cannot help you."

He began to shuffle away from the pair, putting distance between him and them, almost like he was escaping.

"We're here because of the Lestranges," called Hermione. She ignored the Malfoy's stern glare on the back of her head as she stepped forward.

"Ah, the girl speaks?"

The man's smile was cruel as he inched towards Hermione. There was a spark in his eyes that wasn't there before; vulturous and steady. His crooked smile turned even more malicious as he said, "And you are…?"

"Jean Rowle," came Malfoy's voice before she could say more. But Hermione didn't miss a beat. She extended her arm and offered it to the man.

Proudly, she wore her mother's name. Rowle could rot in hell. "Jean is just fine."

The man shook her hand, but something twisted behind his dancing gaze as his attention turned from Hermione and landed on Malfoy. Then, before she could pull her hand from his rough clutches, the man brought her knuckles to his mouth and whispered against her skin. "Edward Pucey, Miss Jean."

And even when Pucey placed a soft kiss on her knuckles - one that felt alien and was unwelcomed for her skin itched for quite some time thereafter - he kept his eagle eyes on Malfoy. His shirt sleeve fell back to reveal his Dark Mark, one that was somehow darker than Malfoy's, as if it was freshly carved.

As he returned her hand, Pucey examined her chocolate curls and the honey that she kept hidden in her orbs. "Are you Camille's girl?"

"She's not from the English branch." Again, Malfoy answered for her.

"Of course, my apologies," Pucey assured. "I keep forgetting that the Twenty-Eight are nowhere near where they used to be before. So many branches, bastards..._factions._"

The last word, Pucey had hissed at Draco. But it went unnoticed, or perhaps was ignored, by the blond.

"Rudolphus and Rabastan," interjected Hermione. "Have they come asking for your supply?"

Pucey smiled at her again. It was cunning, ill-intentioned as his eyes wandered down to her chest. "The Malfoys have a type it seems. Fiery, opinionated, prying women."

A dark chuckle followed as Hermione felt Malfoy tense beside her. Pucey stepped into her space, his hot, moist breath falling on her cheeks as he kept his eyes on her cleavage. "Let me warn you girl, Narcissa fought a quite..." His eyes flickered to Malfoy for an instant before returning to Hermione's neck. "...treacherous battle for what she valued. Only to succumb unwittingly. _Don't follow suit."_

She felt Malfoy draw two steadying breaths, his shaky exhale heavy with rage. Hermione straightened her back, knowing it would draw her closer to the Death Eater. He wanted fiery and opinionated, the pig was going to get fiery and opinionated.

"Perhaps, the Twenty-Eight have splintered because they are only led by power-hungry men with unfounded ideals." She _saw_ a piece of his ego chip away behind his sapphire eyes.

Pucey served Malfoy a warning glance before he remarked, "Must be a joy in bed, for you to tolerate such insolence."

Hermione felt Malfoy's firm grip on her waist as he pulled her against his form and away from the leech.

"You couldn't handle it if you tried," she mumbled with gritted teeth at Pucey. She felt the fingers around her hip unclench with surprise and saw Pucey scowling without a response as it dawned on her that her mumble had been more audible than she had thought.

"So…" began Malfoy, his grey eyes nearing an absolute coal-like black. "Since Miss Rowle has put things in perspective, it would be rather rude to not answer her question."

"I'm not answerable to a blood-traitor," Pucey barked.

"Alright. Jean, here, casts a _very_ corporeal Patronus. Best to let the Ministry know where you've been hiding, Edward."

The smirk fell from his wrinkled face and he scoffed. "Should've listened to Alecto, he advised me against you lot, said I should set up wards to keep Lucius and his scum out."

Malfoy stepped towards the man, "A bit too late for that, isn't it?"

Narrowing his gaze, Pucey chewed on his words and spit them out. "Adel came last week and said he needed three months' supply for a buyer in Scotland. He wouldn't tell me the specifics about who it was, but the payment was made from Bella's old account in Switzerland, so I put two and two together. That's all I know."

"Adel?" said Hermione, wind picking up her voice and carrying it. "As in Adel Maijer?"

Pucey deepened his scowl but answered, nevertheless. "The very same."

"Where can I find him?" Malfoy cut in.

"He owns a shop in Amsterdam-"

"Anywhere else?"

"The delivery address was in Banchory, if you want to try."

The blond wizard blinked as he noticed the setting sun in the distance. It was about to sink into the waters. The reflection of the dying rays created a thousand mirages. Draco drew a calming breath, exhaled, and lifted his wand. As soon as the wood met Pucey's sun-worn skin, and before the dark wizard had time to object, Draco said, "Legilimens."

Hermione knew the spell was not painless or pleasurable in the slightest, but the way Pucey's face contorted and struggled against Malfoy's intrusion made her stomach churn. Within a minute the torment ended, though. Malfoy opened his eyes and smiled with malignancy. There was victory behind his greys. Pucey gasped and reddened with rage. A beat passed but no one broke the tense silence. Just as Hermione was going to ask Malfoy to explain what he saw, he lifted his wand once more, pointed it at the defeated man, and hissed, "Obliviate."

* * *

**jeez, a lot happened in this chapter. in other news, i'm a whole college degree poorer since the last update.**


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